An American Poet

'Time lost is never gained.'
He used to recite that to me.

My brother always was a weakling. He never had any backbone, and I always thought him incapable of looking after himself. I remember he would pore over grandfather's old tomes of horrible poetry, like that cat one he was so fond of, and laugh for hours over that nonsense. I had the brains in the family, I must admit.

Somehow though, he didn't turn out so bad in the end; the last thing he said to me was, "Look after her, brother, you must... promise me that."
Sorry to say, I didn't. She didn't mean anything to me anyway.

However, I feel that I am a poor judge. He always admired me, after all, and I cared not an ounce for him. So I leave it to you, to dissect his odious, empty character and decide if he was worthy of a brother's love after all. Unfortunately, if he was, I can no longer give it to him.

But, of course, I care not a jot.

After all, this is his story. Not mine.