It’s early and I
can’t fall back asleep– maybe, before work,
I can enjoy a beer or two.
[I deliver food]
Cut to: work
Maybe I can sneak home
and have a can in the car.
The depth of craving
I scoff and deny.
What keeps me going is each lap’s checkered flag–
if you can get to February, you can drink. [my partner]
Cut to: February [sober]
I don’t think we should drink.
We can wait another month.
It’s Saturday night and I have drymouth
and the house crawls with
bottles, chasers, faucets, an empty
champagne bottle on display on a table.
Such is a trophy. Gold-adorned
bubbly. I can tell you the kind
of night it was that drank it:
I was how I was.
Who can I become?
(originally published in TreeHouse: An Exhibition of the Arts, Summer 2019)