Draft About Three

I’ve loved my brothers over 60 years.
We get along, and one I often see.
The other (middle) left us for the spheres
ex-patriot and, now retired, he
lives half a thousand miles from home base,
where even yet our mother carries on.
We text or talk, but seldom can embrace
the one of us we view as long withdrawn.

He never was emotive – he just shrugged
and turned away, while I was known to rage.
The youngest aimed to make us glad, and hugged
his way through living. Now we’re of an age,
the first grows wise, the third’s all happy clangor,
but middle’s stiff and narrow-spined, with anger.

This entry was posted in Aging, Family, Love, Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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