Monday, September 22, 2008

Prodgial Son - Ruth Patrick

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.

No comments: