The rain striking the pavement
Like those sinkers you weighted
The fishing rod with back then.
You, umbrella-less,
A drenched blimp
With pockets turned out
On posh Fifth Avenue.My rage at your defenselessness.
Tell me you weren’t telling me something.
Tell me you weren’t out on your feet.
Tell me you didn’t come back
Just so you could die
In front of me.Behind the anger the fear, of course,
That you would bequeath to me
Your mess, that now, as years
Before, you would lack the will
To care for those you had called
Into this world.Some history, you say, from the grave
Where you have gone. How about age
Eighteen, your stated intention to marry
Her, the high school dropout from down
The block big with your first child?
You so proud of your impregnating power
And she shooting me a territorial look,
Smelling my reservation about the enterprise.Six months later the baby was here
And you were gone, living with the
Girl whom I’d been seeing.Nothing really to fault you for,
Brother of mine,
The pattern you established,
Your recklessness,
Only a mirror of my own.October 2002