Over the jaunty credits music,
meet the ensemble: eight feet tall
and looming ludicrously
around our boy, as thirteen years old
as anyone has ever been.

He runs between the rows
like giant skittles. Wobble, wobble,
go the things of Baal,
and the dusty laugh-track –
Ur, Ur, Ur!

A customer comes in
to make an offering,
and behind her back
he makes them kiss,
then fight,

then topple over
as if swayed by the ructions
on a bouncy castle.
– These things belong in the monolatrines!
– Wait till your father hears about this!

When he does,
thundering in like Yahweh,
Abe acts out
his version of events,
a squabbling pantomime:

the idols, sharp-elbowed
as holiday shoppers,
swatting each other out of the way for bread.
– Impossible!
– Ha! You admit it – they’re dead?

Flash cut to Abraham,
perched on the furnace,
a reluctant dork on a diving board.
– How did I get myself into this one?
– How do we get you out? Saith the LORD.