Full of bile and alcohol,
You travelled the gables
With each up and down
Mercilessly mimicking
The acidic spew
In your esophagus.
It was your birthday.
Instead, I was recognized,
Lolling in the limelight.
You sat surely stone-like.
A symmetrically sweating schist
In October's mild order,
Being ignored by our parents
Like their arthritis.
At dinner you ate wine and salt-water
From tepid tears trickling
Down the face of your crotchety alter-ego.

I had the pork-chops.


'Your present is in the mail',
I'd say, in feeble effort
To make you dry.
That was a lie;
One of the many you'd hear
Galloping out of my mouth
Before I ever was "brother" enough to say


'I love you'.