RELATIVE RACE AND VEHICLE RESIDENCE
My brother beat me at sleeping.
He was under the covers in the blink of an eye.
Even mom’s cooking didn’t budge him.
Even dad’s deadly farts couldn’t get him out of the house.
I beat him at marbles every afternoon and twice on Sunday.
I beat him at building forts with my birthday Lincoln logs.
I beat him at scrubbing the family car into oblivion.
My brother didn’t seem to care that I had memorized
the multiplication tables on my first try.
He was a sleeping fool, a sleeping savant.
He didn’t want to play catch, skip stones, throw
water balloons at passing cars, find frogs.
This wasn’t the kind of brother I had been hoping for.
He could sleep up a storm, but why couldn’t he
meet me half way and try something I liked to do?
One morning I found no brother in bed, I found no bed.
Mom let me know that I didn’t have a brother anymore.
Somebody had played a fast one on me.
None of my new games will be tantalizing anyone.
Mom stayed in the kitchen and made meatloaf.
Dad stayed at work and made money.
I took up residence in a neighbor’s van and practiced dreaming.
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