If we could go back to our old house

on Albert St., turn time around to ‘62 and

a Sunday night with our black and white TV,

we might find in the Bonanza brothers

the love we’ve wounded these 22 years

of furious silence. Maybe Little Joe, Hoss,

and Adam could remind us what it was like

for brothers to have so much to say,

so much love that warmed its way

into words. Who knows how much life

we each have left to erase the anger

that’s stained this name we share? So

I think it could be good to go back

home and leave our lonely rage

on the porch where once we

stacked sleighs after nights on snow,

our voices continuous in Christmas air.

Let’s go back to our father’s house,

up to our old room and talk

all night, we’re too old now to care

who was wrong and who was right.

Let’s speak in our boyhood bedroom

until our anger ends, take turns forgiving,

and be brothers to each other again.