Prodigal

The son was lost

Not only lost physically

Like I am each week

On a Wednesday

In Dublin, by Donnybrook

But he was lost from his culture

He was no longer “Jewish”

He no longer felt human

He smelt of pigs

The pigs ate better than him

Which showed in a weird queasy way

That he was not a hopeless case

He had within him

Buried under layers of crud

Some integrity

He had no dignity

But a tiny, small bit of rectitude.

Enough to make him know shame and guilt.

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