To My Brother

This was when
ponies were dark violet and a
sack of carrots was all we needed
to survive in the golden desert.
We'd set towards the sun
as it dropped in the west,
and knew we'd reach
Oklahoma by dawn.
Your too-small blue cowboy boots
made you limp but you didn't complain,
while my roomy red ones
heroically dug craters with plastic heels.
The spurs we never owned
flashed and made metal-chinks
as we strode across the sands.
I wiped my brow with a gloved hand,
while silently you mimicked me.

Plastic muskets on our backs--
we always knew when danger would arrive,
and when it did we fought like ninjas
twisting and kicking the threatening dust.
The cowboys of our backyard--
we kept the neighborhood secure,
even though we were no more than 7 and 9.
I always gave myself more credit,
it made sense. I was older.
But I'll always wish I didn't sacrifice you
so many times during play.
It made it too easy when I started playing real life.
I would apologize,
but it is horrific how much child is extracted from me each year.