Come down from there!
An aluminum mountain we
descend on wax paper
we slip down yellow brown until
the slide is straight,
swing so high you circumnavigate
“the bar,"
sitting your hands in your lap
praying to the camera
but you’re smiling
and your minor cohort stuck
to you like a sidecar,
the Egyptian cotton between us,
the interstate highways,
Focus- I remember it was red,
I remember how you looked and
what you said and when you come
back to Travis- which you never will-
it will be backslaps and toasts instead of
bubble gum and razor blades.
This is my brother, and he knows karate.
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