Brother, Potato

Four potatoes in the toaster oven
    and I took two
before I remembered my brother upstairs
    and my hand surrendered the warm foil.
My brother: far away forgotten, sitting
    in his bedroom, where he’d been all week,
like a potato in a sack,
    filling the shut room with dark. 
He’s made his home in the World
    of Warcraft, where in his mind, he thrives.
Going upstairs to retrieve him I hear swords
    clashing and men dying. This is where
my brother has gone. Under the dim kitchen lights
    he eats his potato.
He leaves his dirty dishes by the sink.

Kristine Aman

Kristine Aman (kristine.aman@gmail.com) prefers cheap, store-bought, sheet cake.