out of time

your brother
likes to begin each conversation
with
remember when we
were poor,
remember how our
parents weren't there for us,
how we got no
encouragement
or love
to go on.
usually you say yes,
I do
and go through the list
with him, discussing
shoes
with holes in them,
white
bread and cheese,
powdered milk,
the army barrack beds,
thin mattresses
on springs.
my back still hurts, he
says, letting
out a groan on the phone.
fifty years ago,
you tell him. fifty years.
you keep waiting for him
to see the blessings
in it all,
but he's running out
of time.