Prodigal

 The son was lost
Not only lost physically
Like I am each week
On a Wednesday
In Dublin, by Donnybrook
But he was lost from his culture
He was no longer "Jewish"
He no longer felt human
He smelt of pigs
The pigs ate better than him
Which showed in a weird queasy way
That he was not a hopeless case
He had within him
Buried under layers of crud
Some integrity
He had no dignity
But a tiny, small bit of rectitude.
Enough to make him return, shuv, return