Half Past December
Sky spitting snow as I cup my hands
around a Bic at 9:00 pm,
thinking how my cousin Jack the junkie
did it with his Zippo.
How he slept under the table last Christmas,
his mother pleading “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
His pale bruised arms a horrible sight.
Just over one year sober –
until, weighing boredom against risk –
I chose the more interesting option.
Crushed oxy dripping down my throat,
bitter taste I love.
I’m a smart user.
Lie flushing my face
hot enough to melt snow.
Desire is the source of all sorrow.
What good does this knowledge do me?
I’m still alive
because I’ve always been scared of needles