But, well-intentioned friends
come with pleas for me
to see a counselor and
eat dinner at their homes.

Begging I do something,
anything,
not understanding I am tired
and need to be inactive.

I want to sink beneath the tables,
lie in the dirt, drink until morning,
and grieve until the loss evolves
slowly into a timid strength.

Alcohol that is not usually kept in the house
because I will impulsively drink every drop,
now whispers greetings for me to enter
those dangerous zones of long lost spirits.

And friends will call
and display horror, disgust
when asking, “Have you been drinking?”
Powerless, they sigh, “Oh no.”

Never understanding how that despair
and wine are so painfully short-lived,
nor how comforting it is to let my tears fall
while driving along that hard paved road.