Thanksgyving

Those days were the strangest
Klonopin haze, sucking down
Unfiltered cigarettes and bad grass
And cheap vodka without reason
It sure was a sight to see, some time later
Surveying the aftermath, hands trembling in the wake of absence
Divine morning ritual
Pants down, a little prick, nap through until lunchtime
Only damn bit of good they did me; Ativan at 6 A.M.
I picked through scattered heaps to find my bed, reminiscing
Of the thrift store bathrobe that had kept me warm as I
Stumbled through that one last crescendo of a week
And reminding me of the one I had in Georgia, just after, in
That dream, felt like I was asleep for a month
Awake only sometimes briefly at their whim, or like
For Thanksgiving dinner there, seated, in communion
By Ed; he drank from two milk cartons and spoke in a warm mutter
Or when the muffled speaker by the bed announced
That it was time for outdoor activities;
We huddled down in that little shelter out of the fog
She, thirty something, crows feet
Still young, squashed up against time;
We crossed our legs and worried about the same things and
smoked menthols in droves like
The flowers my mother and I used to gather
And flatten in books to save until we forgot them
As small surprises for later