The Bottle

At the grocery store tonight,
I picked up an old friend.
The familiar weight of liquid,
Wrapped in a paper bag.
It fools no one, but is somehow
More acceptable when covered.
I was doing the steps,
Twelve of them, six months sober.
Ran into an old friend,
Pulled into temptation.
Fire traced down my throat,
And I realized it was all her fault!
Every bit of it, from the first swallow,
To the crack of the glass on the sidewalk.
In a haze, I went after her,
Recall being thrown against a car.
Calm down, stop resisting,
You are going to jail
For domestic violence.
There was nothing domestic about it,
It was pure revenge for her making me drink.
Officer, it was all her fault,
Really, it was.
She made me bring
My old friend home.