My brother looks good despite the pink scars,
the hard scabs scattered across his arms,
jeans slipping down his skinny waist,
skin showing through a missing button,

a bandana bandage for balding,
black hole memories of teeth.
He is back from the numb-drug nodding
at the table. He tells me the genesis

of his MRSA infection: second
degree burn from the sun after he fell
asleep on the rooftop of a closed Golden Corral.
He came back from the numb-dead. Eyes clear.

Like a cat I lost, he warms my lap again,
his soft fur mangy with missing tufts.