Grist

I joined that recovery fellowship;
the one in all the movies,
where they teach
how it's god
that does
the heavy lifting

because you're powerless
and besides:
the alcoholic's brain
ain't your friend,
that everything it does
conspires
to take you back out
to the bars
no matter what.

As if
all we are
is drinking-ego.

Not being
a very good student
of such nonsense,
that talk almost drove me out,

which would have been a damn shame
since I needed somewhere safe
to call home.

So I stayed;
learned to play
electronic solitaire
during the speeches,

and realized what I have
is a biochemical
imbalance and a whole slew
of bad habits,

not a god problem.

Now it's almost three years later,
and along with some
of the others,
well we clasp hands
and walk the path together,

acknowledging
the hard work
of not drinking,
giving voice to the
crass cravings,
sharing together
in mutual struggle,
feasting at the banquet
of sober life.

Maybe it's the karma
that comes from frying off the tips
of your dopamine receptors,

or the just desserts
for never evolving
past adolescence,

or perhaps we are indeed,
like them big book thumpers say,
spiritually diseased;

all I know is
now I got a shot
at a life worth living
and the pain stuff,
well it's grist for the mill,
so long as I don't drink
and try and keep
an open heart.