It's not what I want to hear
when you call me Pretty Baby.
Your melody in the receiver
made me shudder so that I dialed
Mother, upset, to complain
about her freedom
with my unlisted number.
The last time I heard from you
in '70, you'd stolen that Cessna
because your driver's license
had been revoked. I'd unplugged
my phone that night too. You said,
Fly with me Baby (as if I were a lover).
You scare me but I want to help.
When you brought that old black man
around, sharing wine from a paper bag,
you were marketing me, I knew.
In my living room you pimped:
Isn't she pretty?
Didn't I say she was sweet?
While I was burning
with nausea, the old man's glaze
held numb expectations
of my compliance.
You scared me out of my easy chair.
Then that day you rescued me
from the hospital, rowdy,
reeling, claiming to be a doctor
while the nurses shook
in their station; so you'd read
a few books in jail - now they give diplomas?
I remember an orderly putting a New Testament
in my blue Samsonite™, swearing:
You'll need this wherever you're going!
You scare me
with your diaphanous exaggerations,
with your disregard for reality,
with your very own vision:
your old letters drop
casually how you flew Liz & John
on their campaigns; that the governor
would buy the farm, not meeting
the demands from your cell.
I've complained to Mother
not just because of you, but for you,
that she shouldn't shun you-
but she's afraid too.
It's our shunning
that's made you sick.
And we're afraid.
That's why I lied
yesterday when I told you
over the phone that I would
meet with you big brother,
I'd like to help
but you scare me.
