At the Door

One foot in the room,
I stare at recovery,
at peace, longing for
joy lighting their faces. 
I haven’t done so badly — 
self-sufficient, quick, 
able to talk out of scraps.
“Half measures” they call it 
like they can read my mind.
Surrender they ask for, 
to some nebulous god.
If I slough off my old life,
what have I lost? 
Okay. I turn my back on 
crushed dreams,
step forward, 
willing for the door 
to close
me in.