He had the reddest face I ever saw
under that enormous hat
and though you couldn't tell for sure,
there didn't seem to be any hair poking out,
making you wonder if his skull was red too.

He wore a big long oiled coat
the whole time he sat there,
and black pointy boots
with rubber treads.
And when he reached out to take the coffee mug
with those huge rough mitts
it was like everything else in the room stopped.

They were red too.

You could tell he was beaten
wrung out and done
that's why he was there
looking mad and holding
a firmly set jaw.

Not scary beaten
like some guys who when their anger bubbles up
just want to fight -
just grim and maybe even determined.

Didn't say much when it was his turn to talk,
mumbling something you could barely hear
about putting down the bottle
before it drowned him.

Took his white chip and the handshake,
then sat staring out the window
while the rest of us went around the circle.

Whenever anyone welcomed
or talked to him about the program
he'd turn, nod,
mutter something by way of thanks, and look away.

Most people, when they come into these rooms
no matter how old they are,
enter like children.
Dragged, crying, sometimes hysterical,
since their favorite toy is gone
and there isn't anything left to play with.

The red face cowboy did it different;
it wasn't just a performance either
where afterwards you wonder
which Walmart he works at
when he's not playing dress up.

After the meeting
when the usual routine
is to stand around joking and laughing
like you're still in the bar,
he moved quietly through the crowd,
put the coffee cup in the sink,
and went out into the snow.

We haven't seen him since.