I had to rescue my older brother once.
He called me after two years of no contact,
begged me to drive to his house, ask his wife
for the spare car keys, meet him downtown
in a bar’s parking lot. He said he might be
passed out in the back seat. I told him
I didn’t remember what his car looked like
but he hung up on me before I could ask.
Sure enough: passed out in the back seat
and not a single syllable of thanks. It still
ticks me off, almost half a century later.
And I have this younger brother, keeps
looking in those same old bottles, looking
for something I know he’ll never find.
My older brother is his older brother, too;
everything I’ve ever seen, he’s seen.
You’d think he’d get the message. No.