Our red-chested summer days
were spent playing baseball,
using a makeshift bat from a broken
branch off the Osage Orange,
and balls from rotting hedge apples.
“Here comes the brains,”
my brother would shout
as he threw the convoluted ball,
with its tough,
yellow-green membrane
and rotten black cavity, exploding,
releasing mixed smells of citrus
and earthworm.
Now, when I think of
of launching the apples past his jaw,
as I sit in traffic to wait
in line to pay the electricity,
all I see is his casket’s lid slowly
close over his waxy face,
wondering why he chose to swallow
the entire bottle of Mom's Xanax.
I want to imagine it was possible
for me to have seen the problem sooner,
but then, an elderly man in front of me
with his shiny, white Cadillac cuts
me off, stealing my attention,
throwing thoughts of my brother
in the backseat, once again.
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