his temples quivered
like a tuning fork or
a puddle of water
by the train tracks.
i listened from the back seat
as mozart bellowed and slammed his fists
but try as i might,
i couldn't hear the tones
that made his hair stand up
and his eyes narrow
and his head shake so slowly.
a few years later
i saw his hair stand up again
but his eyes were wide
and he laughed with
frightened guilt
then told me to get a towel
but i stood, staring,
leaning on one foot,
then the other,
shocked and frozen
by the blood now
streaming down my brother's shin
and filling his shoe.