The Prodigal Son's Brother (by Steve Kowit)

 

 

who'd been steadfast as small change all his life
forgave the one who bounced back like a bad check
the moment his father told him he ought to.
After all, that's what being good means.
In fact, it was he who hosted the party,
bought the crepes & champagne,
uncorked every bottle. With each drink
another toast to his brother: ex-swindler, hit-man
& rapist. By the end of the night
the entire village was blithering drunk
in an orgy of hugs & forgiveness,
while he himself,
whose one wish was to be loved as profusely,
slipped in & out of their houses,
stuffing into a satchel their brooches & rings
& bracelets & candelabra.
Then lit out at dawn with a light heart
for a port city he knew only by reputation:
ladies in lipstick hanging out of each window,
& every third door a saloon.

 

[7grizzly]

I shared this with my Catholic friend L even before posting it here. He shook his head and said they got it (the scripture) completely wrong.

Two weeks ago, Tim told me about the parable of the prodigal son from his Christian Bible class. And I followed up with this poem and we had a great laugh :-)