Jeremy Toombs writes

Left Behind

Something’s left behind: thoughts of my brother,

how I’m glad to see him off,

how he leaves me tense, irritable.

It’s better off if I just don’t say nothing.

Words could bring the fight part of me wants; I’ve seen it.

But his fantasy is useless, nothing good to come of it.

I know from experience.

I’d rather he was just a normal guy.

I’d rather what he says wasn’t all a lie.

I’d rather there’s a god up there in the sky.

I’d rather he’d answered those old prayers by and by.

But he ain’t there, never has been.

My brother don’t care. Never has been

what he’s said he is.

Me? My anger is old, cold, hard, and long stored away.

There’s nothing at all

I can do about any of it. 

 Duelo a garrotazos  (Fight with cudgels) -- Francisco de Goya y Lucientes