Trinity

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Sobriety

They count in days and years.
Somewhere it’s taboo;
elsewhere, it’s coveted.

I started counting—
sunsets accumulated.
Maybe it’s healthy.
Maybe she feeds on my soul.
 
Would Sisyphus care?
Is the boulder more important?
Would he not kill Apollo for Dionysus
and pray to Camus?
 
Food, drink, and the sweet melancholy of silence—
my holy trinity.
Trinity, I shan’t give you up,
not for money,
not for fame,
nor for a threesome.
 
I put my boots on
and brought her home—
a fourteen-year-old single malt.

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