the famous writer's brother

the famous writer's brother moved in next door
he was friendly and artistic and shy,
smoked a lot of cigarettes, drank
a lot of wine, and was kind. he had me over
for dinner, stimulating conversation
about art and love and poetry.
 
seemed like a nice scene. me, squatting
the soon-to-be-demolished house with my feral
desperate friends, trying to survive the vagaries
of city, trying to put together those ends
that never did meet. i didn't know then,
but i know now I was martyr, standing in the kitchen
 
stirring huge pots of split peas or shit-coloured lentils
or baking potatoes and onions by the oven full
and getting the kid to school on time while his mother
cold-turkeyed in the bedroom. i was still young enough
to think that love would conquer, that time would heal,
that the abandoned and family-less could somehow
 
make a satisfying meal of our sufferings and come out
stronger, come out real. and i waved in the mornings
to the famous writer's brother, glad to have such
a kind and gentle person for a neighbour. ms
cold turkey did it hard, till that day she walked out
to the backyard, pointed upwards, said hey! i can see
 
the sun! and look at those clouds, how fast they run!
and i smiled, and the child laughed, climbed the fig tree,
tumbled in the grass. came the man that had left her
debt (and cocaine-headed shotgun-carriers), came the man
with a head full of mean, who stood on the doorstep,
pissed off she was clean, and i ran and banged
 
on the brother's closed door, found the famous writer
scowling. please call the cops i said we have no phone;
there are women and children here, all alone and he
said sure and closed the door. the famous writer's brother
peered through the venetians, saw the shoving, the loud
argument, the drug-addled man, demanding re-entry
 
to his old carnage scene. an hour went by, and the sky
was pitch and full of rain, and things were getting scary
as i stood outside, and told him he could never enter
again, that she had regained some semblance of self
and did not want his old refrains. in the yard, up the limbs
of the fig tree, she sat and shivered, fearful for herself
 
and her six-year-old-baby. again i knocked
on the brother's closed door, and the famous writer
opened a tiny crack, said go away, and don't ever come
back! and i said your brother, he's our friend, please
call the cops for us again! well, they did come, eventually
and sent the man off, unsatisfied, and the famous writer's
 
brother withdrew his hospitality, packed his paintings,
moved back to the inner city, well over forty and still
being told by big famous brother how to behave. i lost
my starry eyes, then, read reviews of his books that
emphasised compassion. but i, and a six-year-old boy
knew better; he may have been a famous writer,
 
but his philosophy was me and mine
and stuff you, to the letter.