I’ve a new poem on MacQueen’s Quinterly. Here it is:

Showtime

My brother 
would light up a room—

take the spotlit stage 
and turn wake to party. 

I marveled 
at our differences. 

I learned, early on, 
that all knowledge 

came from books 
and lectures 

in chalky classrooms 
my brother 

would have none of. 
What alien universe 

had hosted his birth? 
Bequeathing him 

a perfect pitch 
for human interaction. 

And yes, 
he made a mash of life—

enamored of girls 
and gangs and guns 

and stuff you smoked 
or snorted. 

His parole officer 
was with us so often 

she seemed 
a member of the family. 

But, we forgave 
him all that, 

welcomed 
his easy charm 

and sat back—
ready to enjoy the show.