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.
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,
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Poetry Party Wednesday
It's hard, when our heroes fall from the skies and turn into mere mortals, full of flaws.