Added to the smell of alcohol
It was the ten foot ceiling
That fixed the memory,
Easily recalled years later.
A single light bulb
Hung, on the end
Of 3 feet of electrical cord,
Over his narrow bed.
This may not have marked his low
point,
(For the death of this alcoholic
Seemed a likely conclusion)
There was time for further
convulsions.
There was to be another year
Of degradation, lies, false
hopes and lost opportunities.
Another year of fear and
drunkenness,
Looking into a small dark space.
No vows or resolutions,
(Those pathetic voices of the
doomed)
Resonated beyond their initial
utterance.
Al was disappearing.
If tomorrow Al were to drink
It would be the first time in over
30 years.
He had help, but not unlike the
rest of us,
It was his sweaty hands that had
to climb and hold.
Some might curse his sobriety,
Believing it makes their despair
seem easily surmounted.
But Al works the program every
day,
And personifies the possible.
Though he stands in the sunshine
He has not forgotten.
He reaches into the darkness
To help others.
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