Street hero

Street Hero

My brother was famous in our town, the biggest Saturday
brawler of them all:” Why don’t you write poetry about him,”
his admirers said, yes, why not! Walked tall through town,
no one dared looking at him in a funny way, it was all about
respect, that strange word, not to be loved, but to be feared.
He didn’t have to pay for his drinks, even the police said:
“How do you do.” But of course he didn’t work didn’t like
being told what to do, spent days at the gym, “my body is
a weapon”, he once said... Didn’t help him much, though,
shot in the head coming out of a bar, a puddle of blood on
a dirty pavement. His mates were proud of the way he died,
maudlin outpouring of grief, mountains of flowers; now
a talked about legend; a street hero’s dead, welcome a new
one. But the only one who really loved him was his mother.