Clague Page 3
  Every day he doesn't drink he gives thanks
to God. Closing his eyes, he prays in the dark
of his mind, sinking up toward a loving,
never-critical God, and he gives thanks

the drinking years are far behind him -
the rages, blackouts, sneaking, thieving,
fights, screams, abuse, loathing and self-loathing,
DWI's, hangovers, terror in chinks, and

every day he goes to the gym,
pumps iron, treads the mill, rows the boat, does crunches
and curls, in steely control, reveling in
endorfins and adrenalin, and salt sweat.

In the dark of his mind he prays to the God
of his understanding, all-forgiving,
bathing him in light, and he feels safe,
beautiful even, with a sweet certitude that

slips away like light leaking under a door
as he returns to the world outside his head -
a world where people cheat, lie, betray,
are treacherous, two-faced, untrustworthy

so that he can never show weakness, never
confide in another human being,
but strike first, fast, get the last word in
and white-knuckle his way through the day; still

every day he doesn't drink he gives thanks
the drinking years are far behind him.
Closing his eyes, sinking up in the dark
of his mind, adrenalin running in his blood,

he reaches for the God of his understanding,
all-forgiving, spreading light, and his heart
opens in sweet relief as he seeks
reassurance of his oneness with his God.