Once a year, at Seders, the Wicked Son
Makes an appearance, asks his question
And is sent off, rebuked, into exile.
My father, though, could not leave things so
But sought him out, finding him talking to birds
Near the half-built gazebo in Fireman's Park.
He looked, my father said, an ordinary man
Except that the birds -- pigeons, ospreys,
Grackles and a very old blue grosbeak --
Were listening closely to his every word.
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