her kid brother ran beside the car :: marjorie saiser
After phoning her father
she caught a ride from the depot.
Her kid brother waited at the bridge
and then ran, grinning, beside the car
all the way to the house.
He was taller and bonier than the day she left,
bib overalls hanging on his shirtless shoulders,
thick dark hair shaking with his running.
He clammed up and backed off when she
got out. She held her squirming baby
and stood at the driver’s window to thank
the neighbor who had given her a ride,
a long thanks protocol called for.
Neither father nor mother came to the door,
one reading the county paper
and one peeling an extra potato, and it was
her kid brother who reached for the suitcase
and ran ahead over the cedar needles
to open the heavy door.