My brother and I shared the same bed

when the sun was alive

and nobody died.

It was a mountain of a moment

igniting a spark of delight

as we searched for treasure

in a Cracker Jack box.

It was a Friday night ritual:

To blot out the dark days

of the Depression,

Dad brought home

Cracker Jack boxes.

We found Popeye, Olive Oil,

Wimpy and Pluto,

a Toonerville Trolley,

googly face doll, decoder ring

and a tin Indian penny

to add to our collection

of trinkets and charms,

now worth much more

than the Dutch paid

for the Isle of Manhattan.

Now my brother and I

no longer collect

as he awaits each day

for palliative care.

Time now moves on,

and almost nothing

shivers my timbers.