brother

you left when I was eight to be with your father

I sat at your desk--in the country,
by an oiled gravel road in a wooden house
in a dank basement-- and let the lamp light your papers
your drawings
your precise
your signed and dated

I undid your locked box
the one you made of cheep wood and a dollar lock
I found your porn
your not even porn just ads trying to sell porn
a breast, stars covering the other place

you left when I
had no door to walk through
played on the stairs
hung down arm stretched out like Stallone in Cliffhanger

commandeered your dinky cars
your stinking smell
your Peanuts bed sheets