Thursday, December 17, 2020

THE PRODIGAL

Me and my satisfaction—
how appallingly like 
the prodigal.

The moment I catch it
staggering back, 
I'm out there—

slitting fat throats 
of nicknamed calves,
chainsawing

timeshares
and 401(k)s 
in half, bleating 

appeasements, 
tickling its feet, 
and babbling 

of rash feasts (gold leaf 
on the appetizers, 
knock-me-down cigars,

60-year apertifs)
in its
pussyfoot honor.