Issue 101, Winter 1986
No one but the prodigal returns.
Extravagance, the same as parsimony,
disguised a bent for pillaging oneself?
To keep the homeward track, though, asked not dwelling
on the irrecoverable, not counting how many
moons were spent, fistfuls of coin sent rolling
on the green baize at 2 AM, the jokes,
riots, banquets laid for spangled throngs
whose bellowed toasts would fan the smoky uproar.