big brother

I remember when we smoked together.

You had me waiting up
on Tuesday nights,
hurrying through calc homework
and taking my time
on, say, a perfect night
with sashimi and black coffee

hanging around the sleeping house
in hopes to hear your
"Come outside."

When I think of the good times
I have a pile of them,

like hot clean laundry,
like all of us, dogs to Dad, on the bed;
old songbooks bloated on adolescence - junk food,
things scarfed down;

and, big brother,
tobacco guts
poured from Swisher skin.

I was so excited,
and you hadn't talked to me before. At all,
not for real
except to tease
or make me smile
no matter how hard I tried to pout.

But I remember the smell.
The downstairs tiptoe -
watching you roll it up,
sidling up to the stained-glass front door
and following,
slipping out.

We'd breathe fire in your dingy white Jeep, and you spat rhymes
endless and fly
and - I thought -
so was I,

and we blew smoke
and big brother, how
we would speak.
You told me stories
and that idea for a movie,
and I thought it was not too late for you,
that you'd make it all come alive
and leave home soon.
I got to know you.
You are brilliant
but completely shut up inside,
afraid to move or even try to - your "stuck"
a deeper-dug, duct-taped version of mine.

I miss it,
not even the smoke,
but you speaking
for me to listen.

I tried too many times to fit our hearts together, I s'pose,
and now that I've needed
to stop,
you can't see through that pretty smoke,
but I'm watching you,
wanting to talk.