Читать книгу Mercy Wears a Red Dress - David Craig - Страница 13

It was something he had to do.

The thing was dragging an old woman

across his lawn by her ankle.

That would have been hard

for anyone to ignore.

He’s got scars now, war wounds,

but seems happy enough—

if you don’t count the personal issues.

(His wife left him, but comes back

periodically to clean.)

I had free tickets, took him once

to a Browns game, all these people

on the Rapid Transit with faces painted

orange, barking like dogs.

Must be something about the town.

We cannot win, but are legion—

though I’m thinking, too, that what

owns us might go deeper, better.

In the end, I don’t think we believe

in winning; I mean,

whose life is like that?

At any rate, the two of us

were right there with the rest of them:

a deficit, all we would never become,

barking after leaves, touchdowns.

We’ve never really known the other,

he and I, though we are each equally

amused at his brother. I speak outrageous,

out of touch with the West Side:

wrenches, car frames, his blunt

assessment of anything near at hand.

For his part, he fishes around

for things to say: kids, beer and food.

The rest is sports teams.

I still like him though: one

of the only strangers I’ll ever know,

brother to my past, blood, brother

who does what he does

because he has no home.