Poem: Robin Hood.

My brother died for my mother;

It was a typical thing-

She went south under the eyes of a thunder-

Storm.  He had been her keeper, her wish-maker-

She was a taker, you could not make her feel remorse,

As the sickness coursed through her body;

She was untidy, flighty, mightily uninhibited,

So my brother begged and bribed to get what she needed.

 

It was a hot summer when he robbed the bank;

He had never held a gun until the rent could not be paid-

And he saw my mother’s grave-

So he stormed in like the storm that took her, in a tank-

Top.  Standing he was in front of three cops,

Holding golden money he had shot for.

He was my brother no more at that juncture.

He had been made Robin Hood-

Except his hood a careless mother.

 

He shot three cops dead, and ran with the bags of money;

I laughed at the story though it was not funny.

Surely I was ready to put my mother away;

There was no price I had to pay-

She was crazy as they say, and no idea had I,

That my brother was the same way.

 

The economy was downtrodden, that is easy to blame-

He had vowed to heal my mother as well as himself-

I understood his shame.  He had her and more children,

And men cannot feel pain.

 

I approached him in his jail cell;

Blood was dripping down his face;

He had become something that I never could;

I stared back at him, the twenty-first century’s Robin Hood.

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