One and One
The person who has nothing is vague. The person who has too much alludes. And these people may falsely mistake one another for kindred when what you draw your conclusions from are the poems, sweet words, which flow out of these divergent folk. A paper house is built, but the living is impossible. Tying strings to dreams doesn’t permit you to fly away to fairy-lands it just leaves you prone to lightening strikes and long wet wicks. What could be the truth unfolded; spread broadly for all to see? Where could the roads so very far apart lead to a home, a hearth, a life? Or is this just a field of fantasy flowers blooming in our minds? Mist is vapor pretending at a marriage to a world it will soon evaporate and leave. You and I are passing ships on a short sad night.
Tip the scales toward optimism
THE WAY I DO IT
Cooking by smell.
Parking by ear.
Recovering by touch.
The later has to be done this way
I cannot see into the black-box technology
Which keeps me sober.
Feel through resentments, pain, sadness, joy.
Find myself under a pile of rags
With a match in my hand.
The many times the steps have saved me
From becoming a human torch
Are balanced by the weight of the rope.
Woven from these same rags.
That together we use to drag
One another to safety.
The savory scent of a meal
Or the glee of front row parking
Can’t compare with the tender sense
Of a sober heart.
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault