George and his brother

"This was not what I intended,"
George spat the words at Henry
as he shoved the chair aside,
"I could have been a contender,
but now I'm a bum, a bum, you hear
and without any Hollywood connections
and I'm not talking about Mr. Brando."
But Henry had already stormed from the room,
the door swinging in and out on fine hinges
and George's dog watching from the porch
seemed to follow with her retriever's eyes
the motion of the door, but couldn't ask
why the brothers argued, only knew
she wanted another bone to chew. There was none.
Henry had the keys to the Chevy parked in the
drive and inserted them into the slot, rotated
his slender wrist with a casual twist, and upon hearing
the motor come to life, he began to back away
from the small cabin, seeing his brother holding
the door, stopping its' movement, and yelling
words which were not meant to be generous.
Henry saw the mouth move, but could no longer hear
the individual words. He felt their sharpness.
He had already reversed the truck to where it nudged
the old oak tree, scraped a small section of bark,
and was ready to drive to town,
to escape George for an afternoon,
to relax with strangers on the tourist section of the
local beach, maybe to have a cold beer under an umbrella,
with a pile of steamed oysters for comfort and because they
tasted so damn good, were fresh from the beds.
Once more he looked over to his brother, and he threw his
left fist into the air, out of the open window, and
raising his clenched hand, he extended his middle finger.
It was stiffly erect, sending the message to George.
Henry shifted the transmission into drive and pulled out,
over gravel and unmowed grass, turned onto the public road,
and with a puff of dark gray exhaust,and the high whine
from it's aging engine, rounded the bend in his truck,
without caring for his brother or the dog.
He never glanced back. "Contender, my ass," he thought.