Resting on my Laurels and Hardy
I can still see him sitting beside me.
Cotton P.J's. His too small and with feet.
On his head he wore that red cowboy hat.
The one with white piping.
Two drawstrings cinched tightly
With a single wooden knob.
Sunday mornings perched
in front of that black and white.
He laughed only when I did.
Christened Dean.
My fathers dizzying need for a pitcher.
My mothers latent love of Italian Hollywood.
We see each other twice a year now.
Forty-five minutes, give or take, each time.
How I want to grab him up as I could then.
Take him to the closest Red Light District.
She would be pretty and so enchanted
that they catch the next flight to Mexico.
So his heart could sing again.
I think often of those days.
Eisenhower days.
When two brothers loved one another
In a very special way.
Those days with Stanley and Ollie
The Dean and Me.
-------Ved