Instead

I watch him deposit his belongings onto the table.
The warm-weathered hands separate
with ritualistic meaning.
Four white articles fall out of the black garbage bag.
Half of them are socks.
The hands that sort do not show
how little they have.
Instead they say I have a system.
Instead they say I am still here.

I watch him as the shears move through his beard.
The jersey shorts and unkempt hair separate
misguided perceptions of worth.
Two people negotiate what can stay or go.
One eye catches mine in the mirror.
The smirk on his face does not show
a loss of identity.
Instead it says I guess you were right.
Instead it says Don’t make this a thing.

I watch him enter the cheap motel room I rented.
Nothing but circumstance separate
us from each other’s economic stability.
Two signs declare what cannot be done in the spartan room.
No signs mention the two days he must spend on the street after his stay.
He explained he was prepared for me
to cut him off.
Instead he means I’ll be fine if you leave.
Instead he means It’s okay if you do.

I watch him in the mirror as I drive away.
The window down and radio up separate
me from him with giddy relief.
One week remains until we repeat this process.
One election stands between my brother and potential change.
I think to myself There but for the grace of God
as I speed away.
Instead I mean I hope I am helping him.
Instead I mean I don’t know how to help him.