We stand in the rain in a long line



waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.



You know what work is—if you’re



old enough to read this you know what



work is, although you may not do it.



Forget you. This is about waiting,



shifting from one foot to another.



Feeling the light rain falling like mist



into your hair, blurring your vision



until you think you see your own brother



ahead of you, maybe ten places.



You rub your glasses with your fingers,



and of course it’s someone else’s brother,



narrower across the shoulders than



yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin



that does not hide the stubbornness,



the sad refusal to give in to



rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,



to the knowledge that somewhere ahead



a man is waiting who will say, “No,



we’re not hiring today,” for any



reason he wants. You love your brother,



now suddenly you can hardly stand



the love flooding you for your brother,



who’s not beside you or behind or



ahead because he’s home trying to



sleep off a miserable night shift



at Cadillac so he can get up



before noon to study his German.



Works eight hours a night so he can sing



Wagner, the opera you hate most,



the worst music ever invented.



How long has it been since you told him



you loved him, held his wide shoulders,



opened your eyes wide and said those words,



and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never



done something so simple, so obvious,



not because you’re too young or too dumb,



not because you’re jealous or even mean



or incapable of crying in



the presence of another man, no,



just because you don’t know what work is.





