turkish coffee

you turn 42 which makes me 45.
to have a sibling is to always measure your life
in distances between one another.
we drive the car (which is on fire
& has been since we were kids) to the 
turkish place we went to after you 
almost graduated. the sky is full of flashlights.
we drink turkish coffee from the mugs
with little faces on them. their soft
clay tone. a tooth. a lip. i remember
when we were younger & you told me
that your dream was to have a job where
you could afford to stop here & drink
this thick warm coffee each day on 
your way to work. there is a flood warning
again. i have never known how 
to be an oldest sibling but then again 
i do not think anyone does. you certaintly
have not known how to be a middle sibling. 
once i called you later than i should.
ran a stoplight. the sky was full of turkish coffee.
sweet & bitter. i take you back here
as a kind of ritual towards hunger.
that which has never been satisfied.
neither of us have jobs we want. the earth
is warmer than when we were children. 
sometimes i still feel like we are children
only now we drive cars & sometimes
get on planes alone. i never can finish my cup. 
my hands always tremble after.
we sit in the restaurant until they settle.
cold coffee. the hole where the snakes
pour out of the sun. it will have to be enough.