The bed in the beer room

was a twin, as if beds

are related and lonely

when separated

Your father had a twin

or maybe older brother

you never can remember

But you remember

your grandfather’s

thrilling terrifying telling

of seeing the ghost

of the dead brother

or vision of brother

who was about to die

Stories stay with you

The twin bed in the beer room

had a ribbed bedspread

you remember the feel of

just as later you’ll remember

feel of burgundy velour

in the back of a car

You are always sleepy

in the beer room

everything always blurry

Because first you always

have root beer, foamy and frothy

making things fuzzy and hazy

and goldy sunshiny

so dozy you never miss your clothesies