Passover

A poem.

Into the annual Passover leaps
The firstborn son, back from his travels,
    wise
With mileage and the well-conducted tour.
At the unsteady table, there is wine
And matzos, and his father leans a little
Heavily into the pillows. The son
Has eyebrows that have arched at better
    tables,
Lips that have tasted better wine. Indeed,
He has gone far, fared well, and done much
    worse
Than most in half a lifetime; but he knows
At least the difference between fraud and
    fraud.

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Passover

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