The Long Way Home

Poetry

“the prodigal son” — what a cliché, he thought,

but he knew better when he drove into Skylar

with its rundown shacks along a narrow road,

leading into the small-time suburbia he had

escaped over five years ago, without visiting.

Dad was gone (seven years, if he recalled right),

and Mom was her own hornet’s nest of problems

while Bobby still worked at the Shell down the street

(some things would never, ever change, it seemed).

but he was the son who had “made it” with a job

stuck out in the city with its noise and pollution,

all the high-end bars and their cozy crowds,

and (of course) the girl he had to leave behind.

when Mom opened the door, she just stood,

staring, before she shook her mane and tipped

down to pick up a half-empty pint of vodka

(yes, some things never changed).

while he had no words for her, she still let

him walk through the door and into the house,