Cafe Atlantique

A whiskey truck passes by the window. Its logo says  the crown

is yours. The weary woman sitting across from me doesn’t look up

from her coffee mug. We pretend not to notice each other.

It can be too much—one lonely person looking directly into the eyes

of another. Last year, around this time, I watched a man walk out

of the cafe & as he stepped onto the crosswalk a car came so close

to hitting him that for a long moment the driver & the man froze,

both unsure who should move first. The longer I stay clean

the more ways the world invents to get high. Sometimes I wonder if

I’m missing out. That if, in spite of the undeniable evidence—

the rehabs, the annihilation, the lost years—I could somehow

safely use. This time it might be different. It’s not completely

out of the question. It’s easy to discount how far I’ve come

when I’m not sure I want what comes next. I’ve been so creative,

building worlds impossible to bear without secrets, become an expert

at plotting my escape. I am thinking about this when an approaching

commuter train trembles against the rails, startles me back

into my body. The woman across from me feels it too.

She looks up. Our eyes meet. The train comes closer.