A man in handcuffs asks his son, Why me?
The answer comes from everyone: Why me?

The fisherman adrift in the fog and drizzle
Dreams of his dining room, the sun, the sea.

The choirmaster let his singers go
Except his diva, who couldn’t hit high C.

If only she had stayed for one more night—
And breakfast in bed: omelets and melons and me!

The mountaineers trapped on the summit sing
Hosannas to the setting sun, off-key.

After the first fight of the honeymoon:
What will you take, my dear? Coffee? Chai? Tea?

The maples flared, and the wind stirred the lake,
When the young wife fled with the Cherokee.

Replace the water-board with a cattle prod?
That’s a decision not to run by me.

Another recipe for a disaster—
Three poets, sour wine, and overripe Brie.

Unable to escape our fate, we demand
Of His only begotten Son: Why me?

Bio: Christopher Merrill