How did I fall back into this pattern,
sitting at the drive-through window
where the oriental woman who works it
will ask what I want but already knows,
“One apple fritter.” And she tells me,
“One dollar, twenty-five cents”
as I hand it to her. I shouldn’t be here,
any more that a few minutes from now
I ought not visit another window,
ask for another apple fritter
and pay that one a dollar, sans quarter.
I shouldn’t lie to my sponsor,
tell her my food is good. I promised her
I wouldn’t lie again. But I lied.
I know recovery, know the joy, the peace.
How did I leave it beside the highway
and drive through windows seeking comfort
and getting guilt?
