The Prodigal
The nobility was sucked
out of him by the mosquitoes
that swarmed the pigsty
where he slept
his edge refined was blunted
by constant chopping
at the bones of waste
he once threw beneath the table
his goodness, first stained scarlet
by the dawn of pleasure
he awoke to, faded quickly
in the inclemency
his endless afternoons traversed
all this to say that he utterly lacked
every decent motive to go back;
indeed, his return was blocked
by mountainous shame,
craterous indignity,
and raw disuse
of limbs now lean through
equal parts atrophy and apathy
but one foul day none of this mattered,
none of it convinced;
and the prodigal,
naked in need
bereft of elevation,
began a homeward crawl
in the clear direction
of an unforeseeable embrace.
Robert Czerny
Posted at 10:25h, 10 JulyVery powerful
Peter Bisson, SJ
Posted at 20:19h, 10 JulyThank you Greg!
Karen Arthurs
Posted at 14:55h, 13 JulyA great recreation of the prodigal child, of a life lived.
Paul Panaretos
Posted at 06:37h, 18 Julygripping! ‘blocked returns’ so cannily cloak themselves.