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January 3, 2006

Michele: Clean

My hair is cut.

My clothes are fresh.

My shoes do not have holes.

My breath does not smell of gin and desperation.

My eyes are clear and bright and see straight.

I walk toward my apartment on feet that don’t trip over themselves, in a line that is straight.

I do not puke up a $500 bar tab in the elevator.

I am clean.

Sober.

Proud.

I open the door.

There is a note.

She is gone.

I shake. Stop.

I want a drink.

No.

I am clean, despite her.

It is good she is gone.

I have returned.

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