by his red ford pick-up in my parent’s driveway,
we talked like men who were grieving,
like nothing was wrong, other than
the unseasonably warm weather.
that it was a shame that he had
to die. he was my brother’s second brother,
his best friend. talking to him about it was work,
harder than the hours we spent
cutting weeds, mowing grass,
carrying firewood. too young to know
how to care for others i turned to the house.
he yelled out, like there was another job
to be done. he got my dress shoes
i let him borrow for the funeral
out from underneath his back seat,
the same compartment that held
his iron city and cans of copenhagen
in the good times before, times in fields
late in the night and early in the morning.
he gave me a smile, happy
he remembered to give them back.
my shoes being returned,
my brother in the march dirt,
what tied us together now?
i cleaned a scuff off my shoes
with my shirt sleeve.
Matthew Tyler Boyer is a writer from Western PA. He plans on attending grad school next fall.
i like this Matthew.