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.