The fatted calf lies in the freezer
long wrapped in plastic, burned and gray.
Dust collects in the folded crevices of the
robe and slippers hanging in the closet.

No luster or sparkle gleams from the jeweled
ring in the velvet cushioned box.
The door is closed, the welcome mat
littered with dead leaves, twigs, dirt.

The telephone is silent. No trumpeting
fanfares of good news intrude into the emptiness.
Parchment invitations are blank, stacked, and dusty,
the ink dried in the mottled blue bottle.

Bitterness etching his face the father grays slowly.
Rambling from chest to closet to bed the mother
touches a shoe, wipes a picture, smoothes the spread.
Tears fall slowly, her reservoir emptied by time.

The prodigal dances on.