a poem by Joseph Veronneau



She walks up the stairs,
clutching the railing as her
ring spins with each grasp.
With the bottle gone, she
has turned to the almighty
pill gods this time.
They have not granted serenity
anymore than the bottle.
She twists into sleep
with Bill Walton doing
a play-by-play into her cerebellum.
When the sun rises,
she doesn't.
The toilet supplies
more support
than any of her family ever had,
and she visits it often,
the last pieces of misconstrued dinner
spewing out like so many
promises of quitting before.

© Joseph Veronneau

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