Poem: "Rupert Creach is my Brother"

Photo by Anna Game

By Tom Stearns

Maker of those fine jams and jellies,

Made of re-constituted catfish whiskers.

He drives a 1965 pistol blue mustang convertible

With his side-kick Leon the Giant.

Leon weighs well over 300 pounds.

He smells of butter.

The vehicle tilts.

Rupert Creach is my brother.

He is six foot and two mighty inches.

Glory be, can he run and jump,

And that crazy jelly…man o’ man!

I saw my brother fight three men and a wombat

With his busted arm literally tied behind his back,

And I do believe he had mononucleosis at the time.

I do not recall who won;

His arm healed kinda crooked.

Can you jump over seven gators and a bullfrog?

I know I can’t

Ain’t but two people who can

One is James Bond…

And the other is my Brother.

He built a wall for me

You know, for my Dad.

If my Dad hits me anymore, I can’t feel it

That is what my brother did.

His name is Rupert Creach, in case you forget.

When I wheeze from the asthma, he helps me breathe.

I’ll tell you a secret just me and my brother know.

If you turn the shower on cold

And get real close to the nozzle

You can breathe a whole heck of a lot better.

If that don’t work get up on your hands and knees

And put your head down.

My brother Rupert taught me that.

Hell there ain’t much he can’t do ‘cept live forever, I found.

Bible says he can live forever.

But he ain’t come to see me yet.

I reckon I’ll see him when I die,

Whenever that is.

I hope it’s soon.

That wall ain’t holdin’ up so good.