Poetry Party Wednesday

It's hard, when our heroes fall from the skies and turn into mere mortals, full of flaws.

I miss my brother, sure. He drank Robitussin washed down with beer. Sure, he smoked dope; shot heroin; went to prison for selling to an undercover cop. Sure he robbed the town’s only hot dog stand, Gino’s, like I overheard while I laid on my bed staring up at the stars under slanted curtains. Sure he used to leave his two-year-old son alone so he could score on the street. But before all this, my brother sure used to swing me up onto his back, run me around dizzy through hallways and rooms; we’d laugh & laugh; fall onto the bed finally and he’d tickle me to death, sure. Arlene Tribbia