A Night With Rosemount

It was beer first, didn't matter
what kind. That was long after Strawberry
Fields and high school, long before ad-
diction became a possibility.

I wasn't afraid then, Bud Light
or Coors in my hand, that one day
children, friends, lovers, and others
too numerous to mention would leave

me. I remember them, curled
inward on their sofas, or lying face-down
on the bathroom floor, tiles imprinted
on lovely cheekbones, their mosaics

decorating the still-firm tissues of youth.
But in my dreams, they don't need
me any longer. I have become
what they feared they would become.

Last night, when I was sleeping, one
of the dears found reason to say what bores
old drunks can be, how taxing and tedious
their comings and goings. I woke knowing

my exit from her life was in many ways
quiet as a snow-filled morning, rush hour
madness come to a complete halt. I knew
then there was no turning back. So, tonight,

Rosemount and I had communion, and I
praised a January with the front door
wide open, and I asked forgiveness
for those with no excuse not to come.