Tobacco spills into her stained lap

She squirms tightly on the plastic chair

In the church hall this dull November evening.

Where to pick up the pieces from? What to do with them?

The serenity prayer, she cannot remember the story from the chair.

It gets better they say, day-by-day-by-day.

Outside no-one shakes and fears like she

Inside a kind of mad jollity grips her

And guides her to the tea. What is all this talk?

Taking it hour-by-hour, she thinks she’ll find

The altar wine. Not yet. She listens silently

To tales of male depravity, she drank her last

Bottle twenty eight days ago; signs of the winter dawn.

Birds sing. She listens intently to every note.