Father

An irreverent man he was
knowing how gritty life truly
is; orphaned at ten, roaming
the streets of Warsaw at thirteen
escaped from a nearby shtetl
poorhouse, searching for a long
lost older brother who left 'home'
before him, then scooped by an
orphan rescue group by beneficent
elders to be shipped out en masse
to Canada as indentured farm
labourers. At least he escaped
the Holocaust. Ingrate that he was, 
he quipped to me his eldest 
yet a child not to fret over the rain, 
for it was only god, crying, and 
soon would pass. Myself now far 
older than the years allotted my father, 
I have seen god frequently weeping.
He seems to do little else. I am long 
past wondering that he does not 
bellow with thunderous rage over his 
impotent incompetence, defending the 
vulnerable from their tormentors. 
Whose responsibility then, is that other 
than the supreme essence that created 
the passions of avarice, anger and 
malevolent murderous violence?