in Yuba City, CA, worn away
by life, I was drunk on the Jersey Shore,
no good to him or my brother. I’d flay
selfish lines when I got the call, then swore
when I hung up, pissed to learn I’d grub no
insurance money for booze. Farted off
the funeral. Sober a while now, so
ashamed I keep making amends, I scoff
no more at words like “faith,” “spirit,” “moral.”
Years later, sat with my brother by our
mom’s deathbed, humble effort to ease soul’s
journey. Stayed through that soft, sad final hour.
“Don’t plan on how you’ll feel,” my sponsor would say.
“Just feel.” I did that. She died on my birthday.
Roger Armbrust
April 12, 2010
