Hyannis, MA

I was always willing to play the cruel older brother
chasing you—two chubby kids running on the pavement,
our feet black-bottomed and blistered
from never wearing sandals.
Remember the peanut butter & jelly sandwiches
we had on the way out to the Cape—
packaged in tinfoil, teeter-tottering on the edge
of the second row seat,
that fell victim to the musty sand-covered floor mats
of the family caravan.
It was your fault that I forgot my glasses—
blue, circular lenses, like the ones John Lennon wore;
at least that’s what the Phishhead cashier at that store
in Provincetown said.
I left them in the side compartment of the backseat
where you kept your multicolored bouncy balls
that we got from the flea market
where we stole those novelty pop fireworks
you throw at the ground.
Maybe you would remember the rusty Chock Full O’Nuts can
that we peed in so we didn’t have to stop along the way.
I know, well, you’ve got to remember when the cops pulled us over—
Dad was pissed.
That stupid Dunkin Donuts box we tore apart and threw out the window.
Perhaps we should’ve thrown the donuts out instead.
I bet you do remember that beach with the huge wooden staircase
built right into the dunes.
Mom and Dad were proud of themselves having climbed it up and down;
they always were overweight.
I’m sorry, although at the time it was funny,
my wet sandy towel, the crack on your lower back,
the people whose necks snapped to look
at the awkward chubbiness
of our family vacation.