Oh Lord,
This morning is not so beautiful
as some I’ve seen sober,
though I’ve seen few enough sober.
But things could be worse, I suspect.
I could’ve “woke up dead,”
as they say. I’m not dead.
I’m in my truck by a highway,
with bottles around my feet
that cough like fallen chimes
when I reach for the one
wedged in behind the brake.
Forgive me, I pray,
my head pinned beneath the wheel,
I fear I’ve been too grateful,
too long, for the night.
