I could tell you about the county detox

on Bryant during that January

when snow fell on the high hills

floating just above the Pacific,

at least that’s the way I remember it.

Cold locking my knees on the walk

from discharge to the gas station

menthol smoke sinking in the damp air

the tall girl from the group house

who came to check on me that first day.

Remember when it used to feel good?

One long summer night

all our nerves dancing

jubilance of drums and horns

nobody else could hear

loud at first then quiet

but always pumping

now we’re alone—

and the air is ashen.

Are we together?

Listen to that low din—

that used to be music.

Do you have anything to drink?