In first grade I was positive there were
furry creatures called tisathees.
Every morning we intoned, “My country
tisathee, sweet land of liberty … ”

In Sunday School we were instructed
an angel told Joseph to take Mary
and the child and flee into Egypt.
I asked, “What happened to the flea?”

I crayoned a picture of haloed Joseph,
Mary and Baby Jesus in back of a plane.
In the cockpit was Pontius the Pilot.
I titled it, “The Flight to Egypt.”

For a decade I dreamed of a nubile
farm girl, Wendy Moon. Kate Smith
crooned her abundant charms:
“Wendy Moon comes over the mountain …”

At Christmastime when we caroled away
I had another friend, a portly monk—
Round John Virgin—as in, “Round
John Virgin, Mother and Child . . .”