(John 2:1 - 11)

Reba, a poet who lived
Nearby made her mid-month visit.
Since the third regular member
Of our discussion group was missing,
We talked expansively
About personal things.

Even though she spoke openly
About her faith in miracles
(Which I’d suspected).
Reba looked as if she
Was holding something back.
She suggested we transform our differences
Into a debate in verse.
“You go first, Iris,” she said.

“Many folks live in hopes
Of miracles,” I said. “I’ve
Never seen one and surely won’t.
What do miracles prove, since
Everything that lives dies?
Plus, some miracles are tricky.
The wedding at Cana, for one.
What’s the point of turning
Water into wine?”

Reba, who usually groped for words,
Now said with unaccustomed asperity,

“I see Clarence is on your mind.”
(She meant our absent friend.)
“Too much to drink again the other night,” I said.
He wobbled down Dalyrimple Street.
With obstreperous singsong mirth.
A cold wind swirled; he lurched
And fell, threw up, couldn’t remember where
His shelter was. The only miracle he’ll appreciate
Is finding cash for tomorrow’s binge.
If you chide him, the fool will say the Lord
Egged him on – water into wine, you see.
I gave up on Clarence the Loser some time ago.
He’s done for. End of poem.”

“Maybe not,” Reba said.
“I suppose you want to prattle about forgiveness,” I replied.
“Won’t work. Clarence is dead in vice. He never
Knows what he needs and is too thick to ask.”
“He called me yesterday,” Reba said,
“And promised he’d look for help.”
(I got the idea she was sweet on him,
Overeager to make allowances.)
“Don’t believe him,” I said and my habitual
Detachment abandoned me. “I see an ocean’s
Depth between him and sense.
He doesn’t understand that life means
Meeting standards, keeping to the mark.
Clarence wants to rock with laughter while
He poisons himself. The devil’s spawn.”

Reba found words quickly again.
“Clarence isn’t the subject of the poem I have in mind.
“It’s about the Savior who bled for all lost souls.
If He could turn plain water into wine –
Think what he’ll do for Clarence
And all us other stumblers, too.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said.

“You and I call Clarence a failure,” she persisted.
“Does the Almighty think our way? He sees inside,
Where we hurt and where we love.
He knows what he’ll make of all of us.”
“Very little,” I said, “in Clarence’s case.”
The truth is I once thought highly of him, yet
He disappointed me more than anyone ever has.
“The last word won’t belong to you or me,”
Reba went on. “If we think our flaws can’t topple us,
We’re in worse trouble than Clarence.”

Because my strength is in light verse, I wondered
How I could turn our chatter to good use.

Reba added in her earnest way:
“Clarence says he wants to give up whisky;
He’s looking for a friend to help him.”
“He’ll never find one,” I replied.
“Anyone he meets will catch on to him pretty quick.
He needs one of your miracles, the kind that happens –
So I’m told, though I’ve never had the experience –
When a sinner turns to God.
Whoever wants to befriend Clarence had better find out
Where he stands on that point. Otherwise, forget it.
”
“You’re the one he has in mind,” Reba said.
“He told me that if you’re
Willing to climb off your high horse and
Walk along the same repenting road as he,
You’ll be the one he asks.”
“I’ve told him no several times,” I said,
“Most recently last month.”

“He’s always liked you and
Says you’re a miracle yourself.
He’s sorry he let you down and wants to make amends.
He says he’ll straighten out for you.”
“I need to hear that from his own mouth,” I said,
“Which isn’t likely knowing him. Time for a new poem.”

“Not yet,” Reba persisted. “He’ll call you hoping
You won’t slam the phone down.”
I was about to say I doubted he and I could
Succeed as friends, when Reba looked at
Me as if to hint I need a miracle of pardon, too, and that
Clarence will help me recognize it when it comes.