If we could go back to our old house
on Albert St., turn time around to ‘62 and
a Sunday night with our black and white TV,
we might find in the Bonanza brothers
the love we’ve wounded these 22 years
of furious silence. Maybe Little Joe, Hoss,
and Adam could remind us what it was like
for brothers to have so much to say,
so much love that warmed its way
into words. Who knows how much life
we each have left to erase the anger
that’s stained this name we share? So
I think it could be good to go back
home and leave our lonely rage
on the porch where once we
stacked sleighs after nights on snow,
our voices continuous in Christmas air.
Let’s go back to our father’s house,
up to our old room and talk
all night, we’re too old now to care
who was wrong and who was right.
Let’s speak in our boyhood bedroom
until our anger ends, take turns forgiving,
and be brothers to each other again.