Graffiti

Graffiti

My older brother was an artist
you saw it in his hands
He plucked ideas as guitar strings
are touched by good musicians.

Something of an old head
Was put upon his shoulders
and he could not settle
like the Hobo with her cart.

By ten, he walked the feral streets
With older smoke-choked boys
Who lit ten B&;H,
Like October Jack-O-Lanterns.

They rode Mountain bikes
and wronged brick walls
with crude, spelt words
that cursed by light.

My mother saw a wayward foal
who would not stay in backwards classes
That taught, in his tongue,
Useless baby work.

By night, he dreamed of freedom
and souped-up motor cars,
of faces etched in charcoal
across a white-kite sky.

By thirteen, he was sent away
to somewhere called a home,
Just like Clockwork Alex
so he ran like clouds, alone.