By John. W
As his head hit the pillow this night
Knowing this day he had fought the good fight,
He paused to reflect the discipline it required
To see the triggers and not by them get mired.
On Awakening he turned to his daily ritual
So different from the Before and now habitual.
His requests for help with his day’s tasks unspoken,
Their hearing, not granting, witnessed by another annual token.
Each day he found his token, just by the door.
Each day he was sober, now, each day since Before.
No small price to pay on The Toll Road called life,
The fare for his passage, a sober reply to joy or strife.
* * * * *
