<i> From</i> . . .Sarah By PHILIP APPLEMAN

When I dare to look,

they’re still nose to nose,

my poor Abe quaking like a weed in a windstorm,

but firm in his nephew’s cause,

and God, gone white as a thunderhead, but so far

not losing His temper the way He always did

down in Egypt, blazing away

at everything that moved.

Pretty soon He nods a bit,

like a camel trader who’s just been outwitted,

and mutters, “All right, Abraham,

you find me fifty diamonds

in that dirt, and I’ll back off.”

He turns to go, and finally,

I can breathe again. But then

Abraham calls out,

“God! Yahweh! Listen! I’m a nothing,

I’m the dirt under your sandals,

I’m the ashes from your campfire,

I’m a pest, forgive me for asking,

I shouldn’t mention it--but suppose,

just suppose I come up short by five, just five short,

what then, would you burn the place for five?”

God is a little quicker this time--

you know how it is, once you have

a deal cooking, things go easier--

and He says, gritting His teeth a little,

“All right, Abraham, Patriarch,

Father of My Nation, for forty-five

I’ll save the slimy place.”

But before I can relax,

Abe blurts out, not even pretending

to grovel, “How about forty?”

God comes right back,

“OK, forty,

forty’s OK,”

and turns on His heel.