Old Haunts

1966

See where he stands,

Glorious to behold,

Like some Roman God

Flushed with the spoils of life,

Re-entering the shrine of youth,

Resplendent in old school tie.

And, in his mind,

The bridge of time

Is idly spanned,

Back to the lost cities

Of his youth.

As he passes,

Small boys wonder at his bulk;

He marches on in state,

Down the halls of yesteryear.

The Prodigal Son

Returns to his own.