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		Published on April 05, 2000 by Anthony V. Toscano
		For My Brother Who Will Never Read This The one of us who for a short while clenched imperial power inside his manicured hands, hung Brooks Brothers suits on the rack, his birthday comes this week. Tomorrow. Today he likely sits inside his coastline mansion, a shadow slumped into a wheelchair, a recluse hidden behind his picture window, a morphine pump dripping timed relief into his spinal column, a million dollars having babies in the bank, a hundred ties grown damp inside his closet. Until I read my mind this morning, I’d forgotten him, he who bears my casket on his shoulder. The two of us together, we sound like stereo signals spitting static through the wire. We sing rich harmonies without benefit of practice. Both of us worship Sinatra the Sicilian, chew loud on hard salami, breathe in deep the aroma of books that make a man think. We both claim to be right about everything and wrong about everything else. Too similar, two men, we condemn each other for the I each one of us sees inside the you. Stubborn minds, dying hearts, and yet we taught ourselves that blood can foster the unfair expectation that brothers should do more than love each other today, again perhaps tomorrow. *** Thanks for stopping by to visit us here at the SpilledBeans.com web site. If you'd like to be notified whenever something new is posted to the SpilledBeans.com web site, then please join the Spilled Beans notification list. -- Con affetto, Anthony V. Toscano, Editor SpilledBeans.com

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