To Ven ~ en route to India

I'm Not Your Goddamn Brother
shouts the inscription on one Harley --
laughter -- catching in my throat.

It's rare to be called brother
with most of us jaded, aloof. Once
it was easy, illusions tossing us leafy

green, together. Later, the dashed
ideal, the collapse of rusty armor
reunited us around our losses

like survivors of shipwreck. Today
solitude
is my only brother.