Four potatoes in the toaster oven
and I took two
before I remembered my brother upstairs
and my hand surrendered the warm foil.
My brother: far away forgotten, sitting
in his bedroom, where he’d been all week,
like a potato in a sack,
filling the shut room with dark.
He’s made his home in the World
of Warcraft, where in his mind, he thrives.
Going upstairs to retrieve him I hear swords
clashing and men dying. This is where
my brother has gone. Under the dim kitchen lights
he eats his potato.
He leaves his dirty dishes by the sink.
Kristine Aman (firstname.lastname@example.org) prefers cheap, store-bought, sheet cake.