The milkman delivered the milk.
Out of desperation I suppose.
My mother took her mink stole
out of its bag and I saw her initials
on the inside satin shimmering
like the future itself.
My father took his golf clubs out of their mitts
and I saw the enormous integers
each one was assigned.
In September I got new shoes
whether I needed them or not.
In April a hat of pastel straw.
We had a carport and lived on a cul-de-sac.
I know these things are fleshless and void,
as unimportant as a mouse.
Hardly full of the farm light and yet like
the farm light that slips in under my door
where my bookcases are weighted with books.
My brother has a van full of rifles,
a string of wives and children
along the interstate, and I do not know
if he shaves or does not. We each think
the other has flattened a life.
I read one day that Jesus had a sister.
I wish I had her tenacity.
The woodshed shudders in the wind.
The barn is stark on the hill.
My mother’s name and my father’s numbers
lie in a landfill that is leveled far away.
Brother, I have been unable to attain a balance
between important and unimportant things.