He has been tapping on my window for years.
Tonight I let him in the door,
his blue eyes still sure, his pony legs still strong,
his hardscrabble voice startling.
He removes his Yankee baseball cap,
his salt and pepper hair thick as Pop's.
Still, I think how he tore his father's life asunder
by his early death. He flops and flings his arm
on the back of my couch as if he owned it.
Why are you still here?
Because I'm your big brother,
I've lingered light years.
He tosses his cap on my head. From it,
the smell of honeysuckle pours down on me.
How you would have loved me, Sister,
if we'd had more time.