My Brother

My brother only talks to me when it's profitable
launching into fatherly lectures
punctuated by disdainful looks
when I offer an idea that wasn't his own
He won't be brought into conversation otherwise,
providing cursory one-word answers
only if it is socially unacceptable to stay silent.
But these are tumultuous times, I remind myself, in our youth
and they say family's the only thing that lasts.
He didn't grow out of nothing, to be sure;
my mother, the creative one
who battled imbalances in her brain
with words she didn't mean and wouldn't take back,
slammed doors and silences;
my father, the high school debater
whose senses of loyalty, honor and stubbornness
meant he could talk himself into accepting any situation
to a fault;
me, the impulsive dreamer
formulating a myriad of grandiose plans
that only rarely bear fruit
all the while toiling endlessly for someone else's benefit.
My brother doubtless sees it all and wants none of it,
building his walls higher and higher
till his empire will be a thing of glory high above the pit;
and I can scarcely imagine his frustration at having to
turn and look back
to speak now to ones who will soon be far beneath him.