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Fatigues

Linda Bess

~~~~~~~~~ 

My brother and I used to meet at the restaurant

after I waited long tables of ribs and Budweiser.

Those greasy tables took bleach

and strange elbows for granted.

He would wait for me

in a pool of cigarette ashes and beer. 

I could never stop the race

of tartar sauce and coffee runs,

even as I counted tips, put away bottles of A-1.

We’d talk about Texas where he was stationed

and fell in love.  He never re-told the story

of crawling under live fire and hand grenades

quite the same. They line-danced, watched fights.

He could pack an M-16 as tight as anyone.    

When he moved to Arizona, he packed

boxes that fell out at the bottom,

spilling a boot and a dog,

monopoly pieces that stayed together,

our fight over being banker over.

I hugged him beside the U-haul.

His arms barely unfolded.

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