I really want to drink today.
The sun is shining. It’s warmer than usual.
I should try to ween myself off, right? None of this cold
I haven’t drank a drink this year, the miracle
of it. Today, I am alone.
I scrubbed white the kitchen tiles, but there are
always dirt stains, smudges when you look
a little harder.
Sanitized the kitchen table with towels,
swept its crumbs from the floor.
The cat sprints from one end of the room
to the other over
and over, imaginary laps.
What every day is, these days,
running a relay race, handing
the baton to tomorrow’s me
with the trust I won’t– today,
it’s a sleep’s worth heavier than yesterday.
Long minutes the placemarks I pass
I can’t make time go faster. It is my day
off work, and in its nothingness I trudge
through sludge. Old habit,
you don’t die hard because
you’re not dying. You’re
as alive as me: refreshed yet craving,
gazing through the window to the light-
stained street, the shadows cast from trees
out toward the river.
(originally published in Stickman Review, Spring 2018)