Always compared to the Prodigal Son
once I left town until all understood
it wasn’t some whim, I was gone for good
rarely turning back once I started to run.
But, back I would look as often as not
to make sure I knew where home could be found –
straight down I-40, toward the scissortail’s sounds.
Hearing them, I stop my tears with a cough,
convincing no-one it’s all sinuses,
ragweed or wheat dust or some other crop.
When the tears come they simply won’t stop,
infecting my emotions like viruses.
And, who is it that makes this comparison?
None but me, the self-proclaimed prodigal son.
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