by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I have waited for the prodigal son to arrive,
looking across the line of hills each day,
hoping to see his cherub-like face again—
but they say he is still in a distant land,
throwing away his inheritance,
living a debauched life.
For he has no real needs, they say.
Not like the Russians
Pasternak, Ginsburg, Yevtushenko,
men of needs and wants
who cherish their inheritance
and are called sons.
I am waiting for you to come back to life again,
waiting to take the fattened young bull
out of his pen to celebrate your return.