Somewhere During the Spin Cycle

by Joseph Robert Mills

Maybe it's the ball player being interviewed
on the t.v. bolted to the back wall
or the two kids playing and punching
the video machine
or the late night October wind,
but there's your brother,
drunk and crying,
running through the woods
behind your house,
his unclipped duffel
spilling clothes behind him,
and your father
sitting in the kitchen,
shirtless, gaunt,
his clenched face
watching
as we search for a flashlight
to follow the trail
of socks and t-shirts
back to the overgrown diamond
where Ted is passed out
in deep right field
and we sit between second and third,
smoking the pack of Marlboros
your sister bought for us,
folding clothes,
and talking about where we will go
when we're his age.