And Now My Brother

Then,
He reminded me of the zombie
in the movie
I watched the other night.
He was a stranger to me: a thin vegetable
growing out of the sofa,
and his sunken eyes
fluttered with sleep.
He snored like a lonely hole,
suctioning all the life from us.

I wanted to snap
him out of comatose.
I wanted to shake off his cigarettes
and cheap cologne.
Instead I slipped
down the stairs
brushing him off my fingers.

Now,
He calls me on the phone
and I swear
we talk with the glass
pieces from our old house,
and we let those rub at our hearts (ears).

When I finally hang up the phone,
my head sinks,
I have forgiven him once, twice,
bundles of times.
But he can’t seem to ascend
above the unnecessary drivel.
He is cemented in shame.