When I was born my godmother
Alice,
Whom I have never met, sent me a letter.
It started: "Dear Lawrence Andrew,
Some world, eh?"
Sixty three years on I think she was right.
All I know of her is that she was my mother's friend,
The daughter of Communists, and lived in California.
Oh, also, she wrote in a small neat hand, in blue ink.
Conceivably, she is alive, nearing ninety
Probably not too mindful that she is responsible
For my soul and its salvation.
Jews do not
Generally indulge in godparents; I do not know
Why I have one unless my parents thought
I would be much prone to strange sins, a prey
To acedie and simony and the sin of Uzziah,
(Which would have required my first becoming King
And then deciding to be high priest as well.)
Thanks, no doubt, to Alice, I’ve committed
None of these, nor have I moved boundary stores
Or taken less than market value for my soul
While I am grateful for her her stewardship
I am even more glad for her cheery welcome
Which, granddaughter, I now pass on:
Dear Ginger Luna,
Some world, eh?
