I have no older brother.
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My old(er) brother feels he's now entitled to speak of old age.
Toothpick in hand, he prepares for his post-lunch siesta with unwarranted forehead-sweat and heart-propelled short breaths.
He speaks of old age with what he does, regardless of my laughable signs of Libyan maladies. (Potbellies and void).
You know, those hotshot poets, they wait for the right moment and words to sell books, but nonetheless, they speak their own truths.
I, for one, admit I have lived enough. Thirty long years. Nothing will stop me from writing, not about how he lives, but how he dies. How he is dying.