I called my uncle, said, I can’t today. I’m sick,
I’m in no shape to leave my bed, much less
sit in a circle of shitty metal chairs
filled with people whining for just an ounce
of pity. He said okay, he’d give me a ride
to the detox in twenty, reminded me
the deal was 90 days of this bullshit
I met him outside.
Sweating and shivering and
dry heaving, I met him. He asked
if I got it now, if I understood
what they were talking about.
I told him to fuck off and drive.
It’s the worst flu I’ve ever had, aching
in every pore, freezing in a fevered sweat,
seasick on the sidewalk. No Nyquil
could give me the relief that one
harmless shot would grant. Instead,
I’m worse than sober. I’m listening
to a twelve-step program that people keep
slipping down, or climbing up to find
they have no higher power, only
a higher number on a new chip
that they can’t cash at a casino.
Someone says, One day at a time.
Don’t dwell on the past or worry
about tomorrow. There’s only
today. Well, today I feel like shit.
What else is there?