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.