A waiter is proud of his heritage, said Mon Oncle Wayne. Sometimes he would play ragtime on St. Louis pianos in bars downtown, he had talents in other places, other times. Remember the Chase-Park Plaza. Remember the name, think of elegance. Later, leaky faucets.
Cows give milk.
Calves become veal. Some live, some die. Teeth clenched, eyes locked on yours. My mother would forgive him of anything, even his divorce, his small vices, because he was the brother who could make this poem finally smile. Ah, he could bow with style, sing too, his imagination carrying him swiftly from hay to hey, you remind me of a French movie I saw, years ago.