Bundled up, just heads held aloft

By layers of coats and scarves

We are truly twins, your thinner

Frame not so visible.

 

In the spring and summer

You tan better, so much so

Grandma called you Mexican

Then revised herself: Black Irish.

 

I don’t live here anymore

So I depend on you, brother,

To lead our bloated bodies

To the football game.

 

Before we step out Mom

Takes another picture beaming

Joy at her big boys:

Some things should stay the same.

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