Day 69 of 100 Poems/100 Days


You find your brother,
and he’s not who you had hoped.

Close on the back of the man’s head,
then the man’s face, staring at the table.

The soundness of a plan missing,
a draft even absent.

Over shoulder, he says, “I better check the car”,
and so he leaves you, staring into space.

“This can’t be him”, you say,
you turn to the empty chairs,
the long windows, along the desert haze.

You see the sun burning the clouds gray,
and him coming back,
that slow walk, always reluctant.

He pays the bill and says, “I can’t take you far,
we’ll have to let go,
if that’s alright,
five miles down the road,
if that’s alright.”

You nod, knowing this before he even said it,
but you can’t bear to walk alongside him,
so you follow behind,
as you get closer into the car.


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