My friends keep my “Wanted” sign, sentiment changed,

Secured in a gold frame, well-inked and still stained. 

As I roll back into town, I hear their friendly salutations,

Like a breeze between iron bars of friendly allegations. 

I’ll drink what I’m given in the seat they saved for me, 

They skim over my travels to coax out an old story. 

And when I’m done they’ll groan “he’ll never change!” 

My visage darkened to them, backlit by that frame.

~Poet of Ephraim

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