Visiting a brother
It is my turn to visit.
Every step echoes down yellowed tile halls.
When I enter the room, we look past each other;
Neither one of us says hello.
His eyes are gaunt and empty,
his face matches a sweatshirt
that is now too big for him.
There is no art in this room,
no effort to cover the plastered holes.
In the leafless tree outside the window,
a sparrow begins to sing.
Together we turn our heads to listen.
I reach across, and grip my brother’s wrist.