A clumsy brother at MacArthur woke
too late to exit well – he forced the door
one two three times, as needlessly he spoke
to someone asking did the seat or floor
retain possessions none of us could see.
Conspicuous in sloppiness and gross,
an oaf of vehemence, he seemed to be
pure attitude: obnoxious and morose.

He’d sprawled across the seats, designer shoes
the size of gallon jugs afloat on brown
upholstery, his tree trunk thighs apart,
his chin in folds upon his chest. “Excuse
me” you won’t hear from him – he’ll stare you down
with insolence, with terror in his heart.