Prodigal Son
His hair is looking better than the last time;
a random shaggy mane of white-boy dreads.
I reach out and he hugs me looking away and never---never
meets my gaze.
We speak in half-formed riddles. Still
the same old game, a battle
neither one of us could win.
“I’m making glass again”
(Pipes and hippy-charms with shrooms and leaves)
I do not state my religion. He does not hide his choice.
I sincerely praise the beads. We barter.
“5 dollars is a tank of gas” he tells me
standing by his Prius.
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