The Prodigal

She floated before him like a summer cloud,

pink and white through his sweat and then lay down

squealing, by her sucklings, a teat for each mouth.

The husks caught in his throat. If he'd only known

the pigs would have it better than he, he never...

He, ripe offal, stuck in the world's latrine!

—so he told himself over and over and over

and over again. With tears came a keen

ache in his chest. Next day he started home.

He tried to stop his thoughts, lethally busy,

but at night yearned for the slops and warmth of the barn,

the hogs' contented grunting and homely stink. Alone,

he knew he'd failed beyond all hope of mercy.

He didn't even see his father till wrapped in his arms.

~Robert Siegel