in remission
things build up inside
so when you can’t breathe right
you reach for something
that really isn’t there
like that new stuff you heard
just arrived to town
clean for weeks
you walk the streets
hitting bistros and internet cafés
but you steer clear of the bars
where former junkies
prey on innocence
chasing down demons
is not your specialty
but for the moment the madness
inside remains at bay
moving away from the lights
your inside limits have no bounds
(as if you have no bones)
and for the moment
you are afraid but convinced
your breathing will not stop
january two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
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