Jam jar of cigarette ends and ashes on his workbench,   
hammer he nailed our address to a stump with,   
balsa wood steamship, half-finished—   

is that him, waving from the stern? Well, good luck to him.   
Slur of sunlight filling the backyard, August’s high wattage,   
white blossoming, it’s a curve, it comes back.   My mother   

in a patio chair, leaning forward, squinting, threading   
her needle again, her eye lifts to the roof, to my brother,   
who stands and jerks his arm upward—he might be   

insulting the sky, but he’s only letting go   
a bit of green, a molded plastic soldier   
tied to a parachute, thin as a bread bag, it rises, it arcs   

against the blue—good luck to it—my sister and I below,   
heads tilted back as we stand in the grass, good   
luck to all of us, still here, still in love with it.