I do not want to think of him.
The brother I once knew.
Born an old man.
He had been more than my father could stand.
Larger than a vat of well stirred anger.
Hope never surrounded him.
Love, seemed a danger.
alive…but his breathing unwell.
I think of him in a past tense.
Like a folklore I should tell.
On a mid summer’s day.
Rare, relinquished thoughts.
Five second memories of my brother.
An abandoned lot that time forgot.