You Can’t Pick Your Family

I left my scissors in the couch. I remember Them sticking out of your leg where now a cave Remains for the reminder.

You took me to the record store. We bought “My Sharona” and you colored o’er Sharona’s Transparent tank top with ball point pen. What a sin.

We were headed to the movies and you were driving The VW Bug. Not sure how it unfolded but the front got molded By the back of a pick-up truck and that poor VW got folded up. What once was round in the front was squared on its forward trunk.

And then there was the time I fake farted in your face Blocking the TV until you were enraged which evolved Into a full blown cat-fight brawl with Dad. A wrestling match Paired with my first hearing of the words “Chauvinist Pig!”

Yes, we had an antagonistic relationship. You took my room And threw away my shit. I was far from the perfect brother. Usually the first to tattle to mother.

But with age comes appreciation and we evolved to become musicians. You were always an ardent fan and we shared the love of playing in a band. And now we, both, are just these old farts. Ready for this next chapter to start.