A hurt woman of thirty, thirty-five,
doing a seven-day stint at Pine Grove detox,
paces, hazy, puzzled to be alive,
feet wedged in flip-flops, sheathed in dirty socks.
Her voice is Castle Island, her first name
a common one for children of the '80s.
She clings to the few comforts of this Hades:
cigarettes, decaf coffee, shared shame.
Red-haired, her face all freckle and tear-streak,
familiar as Broadway or Andrew Station,
she manages both defiance and defeat.
I ponder the sad mystery of her feet
scuffing the Lysol'd halls of desolation
where she’ll get sober if only for a week.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
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Written on 2018-08-25 at 20:43
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