Like Jews Harps Poem by Francie Lynch

I wear your likeness
Like a scapular
Around my neck.
Your mannerisms
Complete my mosaic.

From behind we look
Like Jews harps,
Standing with
Hands hanging
By thumbs
In pants pockets.
These familiar traits
Trickle down and sprout
Anew,
Like Granda, I hear.

Seeing you, one would think
Great thoughts fill your head,
As you stare
At the unwed garden.

My sibs cock
Their heads
And tsk too,
Running their hands
From front to back
Through thick black hair.
I recoil at the sweat
Running off the tips
Of their noses.

Sarcasm drips like venom
From your words.
The cost of a glass of water,
Or a phone call
Always had my friends
Laugh, nervously.
They never knew
How to take you.
And, they were
Surprised
By the help
Grudgingly given.

I enjoyed your silence.
Even now
As entropy
Runs through
My garden.