NoGround

I subscribe to a Library of Congress email project called Poetry 180, a poem a day for American high schools. I was moved by the poignancy of this poem that popped into my inbox yesterday:

Poetry 180 - Sure (Library of Congress)

Sure
by Arlene Tribbia

I miss my brother sure
he drank Robitussin
washed down with beer
sure he smoked dope
& shot heroin
& went to prison
for selling to
an undercover cop

& sure he robbed
the town’s only hot dog stand,
Gino’s like I overheard
while I laid on my bed
staring up at the stars
under slanted curtains

& sure he used to
leave his two year old
son alone so he could
score on the street

but before all this
my brother sure
used to swing me up
onto his back, run
me around dizzy
through hallways and rooms
& we’d laugh & laugh
fall onto the bed finally
and he’d tickle me
to death sure

From Margie/The American Journal of Poetry
Volume 2, 2004