This poem speaks volumes to me about the disease of addiction and how even with the consequences staring us in the face, we still use.
He was on the bench where I usually sat,
his aging face shadowed by glasses and hat.
As he spoke I could sense that his soul was crumbling,
his opening words were cultured, but fumbling:
I kept on walking, ignoring his speech,
so he spoke up louder, my attention to reach.
“Excuse me” he faltered, “I don’t want to pry
but I see that you’re sad though I don’t know why.
If you could give a few minutes to a fool such as I,
I hope I can help and I’m eager to try”
He looked at his hands and he gave a sigh.
“I must make amends before I die.”
I paused to look back, and I left it too long
to turn away and walk right on.
He moved a foot or two to make room on the bench
and I sat myself down, though I reeled…
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