Secrets of the Young and Successful

And now you know their secrets,
a voyeur
at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting
every visit gathering your “one day” chip
as you and the others sit in folding chairs
around a circle
in the basement of a Methodist church
and list the banalities of your days
that cause you to fall off the wagon.

Some guy’s mother is sick.
A woman’s husband doesn’t sleep at home.
One man never feels good enough
for his wife or daughter or father or self.

You think about
how you’re someone’s mother,
and wonder how cold a bed has to be
before no one wants to sleep in it.

And you all know that ninety minutes
doesn’t change the fact
that some woman’s cat is dead, but
you can agree that at least
she’s not black out drunk
twice a month.

Every other Monday
from seven to eight-thirty at night
stories take the place
of liquor.

But unlike the soon-to-be orphan,
the cucquean, the disappointment,
the cat lady,
you’ve nothing to numb -
your liver is pristine.

Instead, you go to collect
their stories and your chip
every other Monday
just to imagine
what your life would be like
if everything always seemed to go your
way.

Thymus, When They Come for Me

When the come for me,
it is not by accident
nor emergency. They come,
with the same precision
they use when cutting diamonds
shoring imperfections
under microscope and steady hand.

When they come for me,
no dust remains to compress
into melee or loose gems;
chips of my lobulated tissue
will not fit neatly into prongs
or a gold metal mounting.

When they come for me
the lymphocytes,
once bursting from my tender seams,
find themselves freed
on scalpel impact, impartial in her scoring,
only careful not to nick the organ
thunderous in its beating, unphased
by my departure.


When they come for me,
I am necrotic and withered,
my poisons exhausted,
tissue cavity hollowed. They wait for,
defeated, my quiet surrender
under the spotlight
and hiss of machine.