Prodigal

Oh, I’d kill the fatted calf alright,

the lamb, the pig and all the rest,

I’d stroke your face, trim your hair

bathe you, clothe you in your best,

enthrone you at the table head

and we’d feast and dance

until early light;

then I’d look you in the eyes,

grab you, shake you, berate and shout,

for the double surprise, for the

crushing months of pain and doubt.