The Prodigal
From the delta of wrinkles flooding his cheeks
To the eyes slow as a fly-goaded bull's,
We know what the father wants: his son back.
But what does the boy want? You'd think he'd ask
For forgiveness. Yet the quiet way he sits,
Tongue worrying apple skin from his teeth,
Says no chance. Later he'll burst out the latched
Door and slam it hard, dust covering his tracks.
Those who watch him wonder was it cruelty
Or love that let us let the boy have his way.
Why let bones break? Aren't we good? Isn't God?
But with no break, nothing mends. Besides,
It's not about why we fail, the mostly good,
But why we never ask after the boy,
Which may account for the stolen whiskey,
His black eye, and why we're only mostly good.
From the delta of wrinkles flooding his cheeks
To the eyes slow as a fly-goaded bull's,
We know what the father wants: his son back.
But what does the boy want? You'd think he'd ask
For forgiveness. Yet the quiet way he sits,
Tongue worrying apple skin from his teeth,
Says no chance. Later he'll burst out the latched
Door and slam it hard, dust covering his tracks.
Those who watch him wonder was it cruelty
Or love that let us let the boy have his way.
Why let bones break? Aren't we good? Isn't God?
But with no break, nothing mends. Besides,
It's not about why we fail, the mostly good,
But why we never ask after the boy,
Which may account for the stolen whiskey,
His black eye, and why we're only mostly good.