My brother is an architect. He builds skyscrapers and Parking decks in the middle of Big cities with lots of steel. He brings over the blueprints Sometimes, and I study them Meticulously. It's not that I think I'll find something, a mistake he missed Or an off-kilter calculation, It's just that it feels nice Seeing the sharp, smooth lines That we live in. Everything's crisp White on blue with protractors and Compasses and light bulbs burning Deep into the night. The smell Of scalded coffee. The sound Of an eraser hustling. That's my brother, awake again. His wife's Already in bed, but my brother's Running a marathon in his head. Of course, he isn't famous, not yet. He hasn't built the first two hundred Story building or something all glass, But I'm sure he's working on it. How could he live with Those baggy eyes, the constant yawning For something pedestrian? He's coming home for Christmas; Susan's staying there. She said She needs to assess the situation. Will she spend all night at her desk Jotting furious notes, sweating From the strain of remembering Inconveniences, inconsistencies, and Infidelities? Yeah, he had a thing with This woman in Jakarta, It was just a fling. God knows, He didn't think it would end up being A thousand sheets of litigation and Money raked up for a lawyer by the bushel. He was probably just lonely, watching Infomercials because his brain's saying "Build! Build! Build!" At three in the morning. He told me once That life is just night, just a Lonely plane ride west when you never Ever catch the sun playing By itself on the other side of The globe. I didn't know, I nodded But I've never been to Jakarta Or Singapore or any of those Other cities where they eat rice All day long. I bet he was thinking about his wife The whole time. He was thinking Of every line, every angle, every beam and bolt That's been built up and how the Hell he'll ever come close to it With just a pencil and some paper. He said he's seen A few of his buildings being Demolished. Wrecking balls and Explosive charges plowing down All the bricks he laid. There's a Little sadness he says, but he loves The sounds -- Crunchs and booms Wavering so low in his ears. The first time I saw one Of his buildings in Baltimore I thought There was no way to make it all stand. Just a little at a time, he said. The thing takes care of Itself really if you take care Of the details. Details require precision, Dedication. Light bulbs blowing at Sunrise and radios catching the static That most people miss at the very Start of the morning. I like drawing too, But I've never been too good at Straight lines. I keep my mouth shut And my eyes low when we're both Looking over the blueprints. I'm Not much for advice. I asked him Once what they do if they finish but They find a bolt missing or a fractured Beam on floor fifty-nine. Do they Go in there and precisely fix it or do they Bring it to the ground and Start all over again? He seemed to not know The answer to the question. He was Playing with his car keys. "Well, These things take time."