Robert’s papers were in a box
in the garage
near a make-shift table
on which were my skates
older than the child
I never had.
Still
what were they to anyone
save for him, dead,
or me, half-alive then.
I drug around these things
heavy on my heart
lost them
when the house sold
left some
behind a purpose
told them stay.
I miss my skates
I miss my brother more
I do not miss those things
that made my heart sore.
