A Tribute to my Brother Charlie
butterscotch swirl bowling ball
the sound of a bowling alley the sound of a powerful waterfall
falling lacy waters flying insects in the breeze
deep blue sky of summer deep lead clouds of summer
wet and chill and the smell after summer a thundershower bees on clover and being careful
grass in toes that gets tracked inside white carpet of youth
I miss Charlie, who was allergic to bees, tracked the wet grass onto mom’s white carpet, watched waterfalls and insects with me in every sky, had our first independences together backpacking and riding our bikes seven miles to El Camino to bowl; my ten-speed was stolen there. Ice cream back then had swirls in it. Marble was a novelty but chalk was not. Nothing is white or black. Not life, not death. All stories lead to Charlie.
Happy birthday in two hours. You’d be sixty-six; I know, because I’ll be sixty-five this year.
I think of you even when I don’t.