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.
