Things Aren't Quite As They Seem To Him

Your brother is at our table. His hands
worrying his hair into a Ken Dodd style.
He can't believe it. You're ok he says.
Accusingly. I look at you.
A teatowel tucked in your shorts
like you're a bar tender, you're slapping
minute steaks in the skillet, not listening.
His woes are endless tales
of how she doesn't love him
when he absolutely knows they're meant.
It's fated. I hear the sizzle of the onions.
Try to comfort him, my hand on his hand.
She sends all his presents back
won't answer his calls. You're slicing
a baguette, oblivious. I see tears in his eyes.
You're hearty with the butter.
I love her, he says to me, all his features
wobbling, I just love her. I nod and pat.
You stick a plate in front of him
wait for him to eat. Like it will make him better.