My Brother Stopped Forgiving Me Last Week

He puts up with me
like flypaper does.

Who am I to be the judge?
He dons his robes with
silent eloquence
and instructs the jury
for me.

I smell like a lunchbox
found in the back of
an orange school bus
and left unopened too long.

I wish I could stand up
like that famous black lady,
what’s her name?
Guess I have it backwards though.

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