I’m in a folding chair in the basement
of Forest Hills United Church,
nursing a styrofoam cup of coffee.
We’re all here hoping to find some inspiration
in someone’s else’s version of the 12-step story:
“I’m Rob and I’m an alcoholic.”
Hey Rob.

There’s the downward spiral:
one drink that always leads to six more,
*****-soaked nights, fetal-curled in alleys.
Velleities of sobriety.

Stealing grandma’s bunco winnings,
laughing at your girlfriend’s abortion,
DUIing your way into a kid and his dog,
sweaty shakes in a hospital bed.

And then the first meeting, a white chip,
a higher power, a sponsor.
You finally make it to one of your daughter’s
ballet recitals– the first in seven years.

And now it’s black chips and clean blood.
Reverent mornings on your knees,
and evenings in this basement.
Thanks for sharing Rob.

We file outside: inhale, exhale.
Floating blazes glow and fade in steady rhythm.
Heels grind ashy tobacco into asphalt
and we return to hear the next monologue,
leaving behind us our smoke
that whorls and wends
into a single plume.