by Alan Steinle

A wealthy Kansas farmer had
two sons, and he was very glad
to hear his elder offspring say
that he would never move away.
He wanted to continue there
and be his father’s business heir.

But when the younger son had grown
into a man, he took a loan
from his old man and drove away.
He told his dad that he would pay
once he had built a business in
a West Coast startup town, but when
he left he went directly to
Las Vegas, where he found and threw
some balls onto a roulette wheel.
He won his bets and had a meal
and went to try a slot machine.
He won at once, and he was keen
to keep on winning every game,
but soon a watchful worker came
to show the winner to the door.
They couldn’t let him win much more.

He had his winnings and the loan.
His fortune had already grown
into a nice and hefty sum.
He felt a strange delirium
and went to rent a weekly room,
for he intended to resume
his gambling in a different zone,
where all his winnings were unknown.
But word had spread around the town,
and his good luck turned upside down.

But he remained in Vegas and
spent all his dough in wonderland.
He wasted all his father’s loan
on careless living till he’d grown
into a shell of what he was,
and life and liquor lost their buzz.

He had no more cards up his sleeve,
and yet he didn’t want to leave,
but since he couldn’t pay his bill,
he left his room against his will.
He found himself out on the street,
and all he’d had that day to eat
was breakfast that he’d gotten free.
He felt just like a refugee—
outside, alone—but couldn’t bear
to ask for help from people there.

But after several dumpster dives,
where he found food to stay alive,
he started to become aware
of what exactly brought him there.
He thought about his father’s farm,
where he had never raised an arm
to help his father in the fields,
yet he had gained from all the yields.
He thought, Perhaps my dad would let
me be a farmhand worker, yet
I don’t think he would care to see
how I have lived so foolishly.

But dirty, desperate, and alone,
he asked a stranger for his phone,
so he could make a call to dad.
His father wasn’t vexed or mad
and didn’t talk about the loan,
but urged his son to come back home.

The father, watching from the drive,
rejoiced to see his son alive.
He ran to meet him on the way
and hugged his son without delay.
He didn’t say, “What did you do
with all my money? Shame on you!”
Instead, he said, “I’m glad you’re here!
You’re welcome home. I hope that’s clear.”

The house’s door was open wide,
and when they both had gone inside,
the son perceived his friends were there
and peaceful music filled the air.
They had prepared his favorite meal,
which made the son, returning, feel
a love that he had never known,
and now he didn’t feel alone.

But when the elder son had seen
his father’s actions, he was green
with envy and withdrew outside,
for he was mad—could not abide
the thought that he had never had
a party thrown by his own dad.

But then the father came outside
and took his elder son aside.
He said, “I had to celebrate,
for my lost son is home. The weight
of my concern has finally left,
and I don’t feel like I’m bereft.
So cheer up, Son, for you can tell
that all I have is yours as well.”

This poem is a modern-day interpretation of Jesus’ parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11-32).