Oxford Comma

It's a rare real conversation
with a man I love
who made himself scarce
for years.
The wife's gone to work.
The kid's asleep under my arm.
The steak dinner and stars have aligned
to allow two kindred ships
to pass closer in their darkness.

He lets me lead for a change, smiles
knowingly when my hits score points.
I can tell he's surprised to hear sage words
come from the lips he passed down, a soul
he helped form whether or not it was intended.
"Like your father used to say, 'There's a little larceny
in everyone's heart'," I jab with a ringer.
His eyes gleam at the familiar advice
heard from a freshman he told ten years ago.
He shouldn't be so shocked that I've cited
a kinsman who died before I was born.
A writer, if nothing else, is a keen observer.

The years have been kind to him, at least
on the outside. Time has smoothed his face
like driftwood. There are no deep ridges
like windtorn valleys digging through
his aging countenance. And still the eyes--
always the eyes, the deep brown orbs
that reach as far inside of him as mine do in me.
A yellow glow warms the living room
where part of me grew up
as I cherish every word exchanged
not knowing when the last will come.
One never does.
He must read my mind.
The eyes again.

"God forbid anything should happen to me..."
he begins, his hands rubbing themselves
as if to feel for some latent illness
waiting to rear its head.
I nod and stroke my brother's arm
loose with the peace of dreamscapes.
Life's not worth the burden
until it's lived for someone else.
Torpedoes be damned, I have that now.

We wander back to the baffling
doled out by the fairer sex.
Years' worth of failed coronary experiments
are summed up in a matter of minutes.
One of them even gets a name.
I owe him that much, one character
in my tale. Some things, however
I keep for myself.
Only I know of the clandestinely acquired
ring sizes, the accidental misgivings, and
what they all mean to the penitent.

There's only one left to chamber
so I fire it
confident that my bullet will pierce.
"It's hard for a drowning man
to grab a buoy slowly."

My father picks my brother up
and carries him to his bedroom.