“It’s Not Me,” “Always There,” and “Service”

It’s not me.

The polish lingers,

black onyx screams

on each finger.

It's been five days.

My nails are lit.

I'm not sure why

I try it.

I have gone with this before,

with other hues.

We usually only last

for a day or two.

It’s shiny and showy.

Draws eyes in.

It's gaudy and garish.

Why did I do it?

This little kid

wants to be

grown up, but

it's just not me.

The teenager in me

wants to be cool,

but it makes me

feel like a fool.

Black lacquer

on each digit

is ostentatious—

You can't miss it.

I see it on stars,

in a movie.

I see it on friends

and find it groovy.

I see it on men—

I like that look.

But I’m not sure

what is the hook.

Here is the rub—

you may understand,

I like it on my feet

but not on my hands.

Cool and hip,

pretending to be

a femme fatale

is just not me.

It’s a dilemma

I’ve been here before.

I don’t want to do

it anymore.

It's kinda goth,

it's not a hit.

It's chipping off,

time to lose it.

     We worked together.

I thought

we drank together.

We did not drink together.

I drank.

You did not.

When I entered the fire hall

the dusty light shone

on its occupants' hearts.

They came to be restored to sanity.

Seeking sobriety, salvation, and serenity.

At that meeting,

newly sober,

sirens were wailing in my head,

my stomach jumped into my throat,

and I held onto the edge of my chair

one after the other.

When I saw you there,

tall, elegant and composed,

you welcomed me.

Reassured me

and hugged me.

Over the next five years

when I despaired or stumbled,

you steered me toward the light.

Taught me about acceptance.

And powerlessness.

My shame faded.

You listened to my insanity,

shared yours

and made light of it.

When I lost my sanity at work,

you said, Return the next day.

With your head held high.

You held yours high.

Equating a vodka stinger

with sophistication,

you showed me

San Pell worked just as well.

Over the next 15 years

you were always there.

Never hovering or controlling.

You helped me untie the ropes

in which I wrapped myself.

I learned how powerlessness,

surrender and humility

gave me strength.

You asked that I write

about insanity in my life

and my relationship with

the God of my understanding

at that time and before then.

That gave me strength.

Deepened my faith.

You suggested that I write

another searching

and fearless moral inventory

of my resentments and regrets.

I shared it with you.

Driving the Turnpike home

afterwards

the sky reached me.

I was connected

to the Broad Highway.

After another 5 years,

you packed up your household

and moved

a thousand miles away,

but you were still there.

Over the next 7 years

you were seeing a doctor

for memory loss.

It was not Alzheimer’s.

You said, The medicine caused

unpleasantness.

I moved 100 miles from you.

You remembered less and less.

You didn't make sense.

I went to visit you.

Still tall and beautiful

like a Greek statue,

you carried yourself nobly

like the horses you once rode.

But nothing was left.

You were not there.