The Prodigal Son
By Greg Santos
That feeling the executioner has
when he hangs up his mask at the end of his work day.
I have that right now.
Like a rabbit punch out of the blue.
I feel kilter and that worries me.
But I'm not complaining.
I'm just singing a requiem for all decent centaurs everywhere.
The digital photo frames of the present
do not compare to the daguerreotypes of the past.
Take a bayonet to the face
and you regret it for the rest of your life.
It's best not to dwell.
I say it's better to pack ones bindle
and hobo it down to the freight yard.
That way you won't feel like a permanent intern
and that elephant you've had on your back all your life
will be off scratching its back on a tree in some cosmic field.
Skulking back into the village
long after they forgotten they tarred and feathered you
the prodigal son will be welcomed home with open arms.