Don’t stand here next to me
the drop will be here in a few minutes.
The price being paid is unexpected,
a man approaches and offers to do it,
I refuse any and all help.
I’m standing anxiously at the exact spot,
the drop’s instructions were explicit.
Across my left shoulder is a strip bar
three heavily drunk men stagger,
the duffle bag is walking towards me,
the two intersect, and there’s a scuffle.
The drunk men run while carrying the bag.
Everything has gone horribly wrong,
they don’t seem to notice, I’m following.
Down a well lit alley they huddle
a lock is forbidding their entrance.
I turn and notice, my brother, frantic.
We meet eye to eye and I tell him to stop!
The street value was too steep to ignore
‘my brothers keeper’, those are the words.
My mouth fell open and I woke
from a nightmare that took some
convincing that it wasn’t really happening.
It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.
Left with the overwhelming feeling
my brother is mixed up in something.
I’m no longer his keeper, like I was
when we were younger.
It wouldn’t have mattered anyway,
he would have refused the help.
Desperately prideful, there are insecurities
come to find he’s homeless in his car.
The drop was perhaps his drug habit
that has stripped him of everything.
Living, surviving on the mean streets
his one and last possession was his mind,
unfortunately, it has been compromised.
Tragically too sad because this is now
two of my siblings that have been
taken down by the drug trade.