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.
Comments on Friendsjournal.org may be used in the Forum of the print magazine and may be edited for length and clarity.