Common

My wit's end
is a balloon string
spectacular in release.
I lean into the wind
"blowing where it wishes"
and watch my apprehensive crutch
fall to the yard.

Messianic melodies
drape on a mandolin,
is it a mitzvah ?
Our Deity digs ditties,
a few angels spared
for the heads of tuning pegs.

Not yet old men,
our grown children
groan over our table manners
at the Feast.
Challah bread and jelly
not the only things
common  to our plate.