He was my wife’s uncle,
married once,
diplomas from schools
most couldn’t get in to.
Together, we drank ourselves
to Saturn at my wedding, years
before he made it his profession.
People said we looked alike;
green eyes, dark hair, a look
that always seemed to be
elsewhere, as if something
invisible had entered the room.
Perhaps he saw it, that something
that told him he was not one
of the chosen, that others
would be rich or famous,
somehow noteworthy, while
his shoes would always be
brown and ordinary.
As for me, I may have seen
it too, shadowing those faces
filled with love and expectation,
a cliff too slippery to ignore,
enough to keep me sober.