Three Months Sober
I’m moving you out of my life,
box by box, album by album;
some days I do not answer the bell
when you call.
I smelled your cologne today at the grocers
and shuffled two aisles from produce
to find you broken on the floor,
brown and bubbling.
You and all your flavors:
pineapple, coconut, coffee and icy aqua
liquor that looks as if you could dip a feather
inside and paint the air. And I walk away.
I’ve been thinking about it all day.
I’ve been plotting.
Laying next to Jack, I anticipate
his snore so I can sneak off to the store,
but between wheezes he whispers
my smile reminds him of a greek kore.
He murmurs how he lives to bring
I tell him no one
can be happy every day.
He mumbles how I saved his life
and he is never going to leave me.
After he falls asleep, my calculated scheme
does not disappear, but is pushed back
like a sweater in the closet at spring,
uncomfortable to wear in a decision's heat.
And the pining I knew today, I’ll meet again
tomorrow with wily anticipation; it doesn’t plan
to be a mere acquaintance
or go away. But tonight I won’t and I don’t
know if I should be grateful.