At 6 am you drank
black coffee before
heading out the door,

a simple sign of leaving
I never noticed before.

At night you’d watch the game
a cold beer in your grip,

always wasting time
before you left on a trip.

On Sunday’s you made eggs
but never ate them all,

always rushing for the door,
scurrying about the hall.

Big brother
I always watched you
when you came
when you left

I’d leave the kitchen light on
so you’d know where to step.

I watch as you partied
as you drank
as you drove.

I’d pray for your safe
journey back to home.

I watched you drink your coffee
get in your car and go

the morning that you left
but never came home.