GREG

My brother, your works are all around me,
your name is alive in my house,
your kitchen dancing is partner
to my kitchen dancing,
your chair I inhabited sits
in the longest empty room with nobody smoking
and I live in your outline lagging
and I ride in your words of laughter
as I soar to greet you where your music is playing,
and you have your vitamins and your vegetables
your drink and your mat of paint dishes,
your jugs of substance gleaming
and your walls broadcasting a breast stroke,
footrest of finger-crumbled tobacco
and charcoal pastel.