Cheap Blue Socks

I notice my brother's foot.
In cheap blue socks
it is exactly like our dad's.
I draw my focus in
cut out the soft furnishings
the ornaments in rows
the bible tracts inscribed in wood
hanging on the walls.
I look at that foot, blue socked
the exact shape, a ghost
and I am ten again
in the front room.
Dad has his feet up
on the new gold velour pouffe,
one ankle crossing the other.
He is laughing about something
propping his chin on one index finger.
"You need a haircut," I say,
that wild black Irish hair
always out of hand.
My brother puts his hand to his head.
"Last time they nearly scalped me!"
I see the shape of his thumb, his nail.
Exact, exact.
"Not you," I say.