The booklet in the CD case
declares that it might
be you playing the bass
on the sixth track of your brother’s
self-titled album, recorded probably
in Hotel Grand Number 51,
South Corridor Street, Reacher’s Park,
East Georgia, in a room with a view.

I’m half sure they’re right,
but half positive they aren’t,
because no one’s seen you
in seven years, and I’m pretty sure
that’s not long enough
to have gotten that good.

Especially since you promised
you’d never play again
after your uncle Paul gave up the ghost,
although I’ll be the first to admit
you never keep your promises.