The truth is – I carried, he built.
When you came in, prickling with anger
eyes reddened with irritation
(or was it the drink ?)
you were already shouting,
though your mouth was closed.
The sun did not shine, too wet to play
so we had built a den
in the garage,
my brother and I.
Well, the truth is – I carried, he built.
And from the bric-a-brac
of your boxed-up bones
we built our skeleton
draped in second-hand clothes.
Well, the truth is – I carried, he built.
But it was all good
just that being there with him.
Doing stuff. Making things.
When suddenly, he snapped.
And I snapped back.
Was it the blanket falling from the wire?
I can't remember now, the cause,
as if only one were needed
for children's wars.
But the truth is – I carried, he built.
Then we were at it tooth and claw
rolling around on the floor:
That's the part where you came in
already shouting,
though your mouth was closed.
But the truth is – I carried, he built.
