I feel for all the sisters of imperfect brothers. When the one who's supposed to be your hero turns out like any other. Not that I blame you for anything. I'm sure all you did made sense in your head, at the time. Just like it made sense in mine to me that time in D.C. when I hit you upside the head with an etch-a-sketch. And I bet it never occurred to you then that eventually I wouldn't be able to count on my fingers and toes the number of times you drove your baby sister while buzzed or ******. And I guess I feel that I have something to prove because I've written three poems in my life and they're all about you.