A fleck of blood blotted the sleeve
Of his coarse woollen tunic–rather threadbare
Since the gold they’d brought was spent–
And he’d had to start to ply his workman’s arts
To pay the rent–
And she too young to have learned to weave
Old garments with lengths of new thread and repair
A worn-out thing—
Though she was good at mending worn-out hearts.
“A day’s wages for a lamb—and even at that
I had to split the carcase with the laquerer, Imhot–
So his gentile family gets to keep
The Pesach they know not!
Sorry that the meat’s a little burned.”
“Yusef, it’s the blood of sheep
That saved us, not the meat!
The local people sacrifice a cat
To expiate their sins. Please bless the food we’ll eat.
I have the Haggadah. Let’s sing!”
And the toddler at the table watched and learned.