after a painting by William De Kooning
After I’m done
raking the giant
hands of maple leaves
and the tools
have been returned
to the shed, I call my brother
to see if he got the job,
if his cancer
is back, if his greenhouse
blew over in the wind.
This is the soup
of our lives, he
is an invisible breath
and I am the one asking
questions. After I’ve had
enough of the women
who chatter
sour cream and onion
gossip while waiting
to pick up their kids,
I call my brother
to ask him if I have
too many friends
made of paper, if I should
drink more wine, adjust
my rose-colored glasses
to an even brighter shade.
My brother, quiet,
let’s me decide
for myself,
his response is always
the wind, his voice
touching every leaf.