The Last Scene

Extravagant sweep
                         of clear sky
in the big picture window
                                     beside the bed,
lights here and there
                               already flashing all
across the city down below us—
and the girls out somewhere,
                                          you and I alone,
you with your eyes closed,
                                       I with a drink in hand:
you suddenly in character,
                                        your voice
a wraith’s voice,
                         faint, stumbling,
with morphine,
                     and yet
                               still artful
                                                 as ever,
even if the art
                      was obvious,
the dying brother
                      playing the dying brother—
Do you think
                  you have a problem
                                             with that?
                                                            the question
masking a declaration,
                                 the brother
                                                 a savior,
the savior a judge,
                            not all that different from
before except that now
                                 the dying had
             all doubt away
                                  as you repeated,
Do you think
                  you have a
                                                “Me? With what?”
I too in character now,
                                  the character
without character,
                           the little brother who

in your mind proves
                              the truth
                                           of all you think
by his resistance to it,
                                                the scene off
by refusing to play it,
                                  pretending not to know:
“With what?”
                With that,
                                  head tilted to the shot
                   my one desire now
                                             a little shtick,
a final moment
                     of material—
A problem?
               Not at all.
                               There’s plenty more
where that came from,
                               almost a whole bottle.”
You imperturbable,
                           Look at yourself,
how you sit here
                           drinking all alone.
                                                       “Well, mea
         Are you happy now?”
                                     You drink
a lot.
         “I have a lot
                              to drink about.”
And that was that.
                            For now you drifted off,
or seemed to,
                     your eyes closed,
                                                head turned away,
the two of us
                                  for the last
time ever on the stage
                                  of being brothers,
our see-through
                        figures in the picture window
spectral and vast
                           against the city
a ghostly circuitry
                              of nerves
the ancient masks we wore,
                                        the hand I lifted,
the drink I knocked back
                                     in a final toast
in honor of the timing,
                                  the concentration
that neither
                   one of us
                                  could ever break.

Alan Shapiro, “The Last Scene” from Song and Dance. Copyright © 2002 by Alan Shapiro. Reprinted with the permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved,
Source: Song and Dance (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2002)
More Poems by Alan R. Shapiro