Brother’s coming home today.


Brother’s forgotten all the streets here,

He has lost the map of his heart.


He’s come back with his syllabus language,

With his voice tired and wasted,

With his philosopher’s burdens,

With his distant eyes and dialectic at dinner.


Brother doesn’t like the coffee here

Anymore; it’s not fair trade,

Or organic

Or adult enough.


And yet


We both still feel alive

On crisp fall nights.


I sometimes remember the formula

Of his laughter.


We can still sing together

The passions of our town.