He cannot undo the past
Tasting the bitterness of shame
Haunted by embarrassment
Cast adrift in helplessness,
Towards the house where he was born,
Grew up,
Longed to be free.
His miserable, repentant steps
No shoes heavy on his feet,
Weighted down only by a forlorn heart
Riddled with guilt.
Awaiting his father’s burning response,
A moment through unworthy eyes,
His father running
His father’s love
His father’s embrace
His father’s acceptance
Before the fog of sorrow raises its sword,
A dance of joy, compassion with a kiss.
The best robe
Ring on his finger
Sandals on his feet
This is my son, who has come home.
Life From A Park Bench 
Alan, your poem brought the story of “The Prodigal Son” to life. What a joyful reunion when someone estranged returns home!