The Castaways, Miami Beach, 1960

Sun bleached hair,
drinking a Roy Rogers,
the umbrella
a cool parachute.
The hotel photographer
took a photo of us.
For five bucks
he put it in a souvenir frame.
I smiled naturally then.

My older brother looked
and dressed like a movie star,
his hair dark and wavy,
wrap-around sunglasses.
He hadn’t married Miss Florida
or opened the restaurant yet.
Tax people hadn't chained
the doors to the restaurant.
She hadn’t scrawled good-bye
with lipstick on the bedroom mirror.

He moved back after the divorce.
Our parent’s home a nightclub,
we lived in the back half.
He waited tables, supervised
the waiters and waitresses.

One night, after hours,
I heard him fucking the fat dishwasher
on one of the tables.
She was a former XXX-size stripper.
He came to bed, thought I was asleep,
sobbed for who knows how long.

A month or so later, he didn’t come home.
I fell asleep but was awakened
by the phone in my parent’s room.
I heard dad say, "Where?", get up and leave.
Mom was screaming and crying.
I couldn’t cry then.

Looking at this old photo,
I remember how he used to tease me
and make me cry.
I wish I could now,
but I’m beginning to smile
naturally again.