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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=352632" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Prodigal</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=352632" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">You could drive out of this country<br>and attack the world with your ambition,<br>invent wonder plasmas,<br>become an artist of the provocative gesture,<br>the suggestive nod, you could leave<br>wanting the world and return<br>carrying it, a noisy bundle<br>of steam and libido, a ball of fire<br>balanced on your tongue,<br>you might reclaim Main Street in a limo<br>longer than a sermon, wave at our red faces<br>while remembering that you were born<br>a clod hopper, a farmer’s kid,<br>and get over that hump once and for all<br>by telling A Great Man’s stories—<br>the dirty jokes of dictators, tidbits<br>of presidential hygiene, insights<br>into the psychotropic qualities of power<br>and the American tradition of kissing<br>moneyed ass. Your uncle would still<br>call you Roy Boy, pheasants<br>sun themselves beside the tracks,<br>waiting for the dew to burn off<br>before their first flight, and corn<br>grow so high that if you stood<br>in the field you’d disappear, the fact<br>aiming your eyes down the road.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bob+Hicok">Bob Hicok</a></strong></div>

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