The Addicts Poem by kendall thomas

He tied his tie
in front of morning’s mirror,
where the moving sun lit
the four corners of his being
above the window sill.

His wife rubbed off the cake
and brought forth a butterfly
that flittered about this purse or that.
What would someone think
to see her in that,
last year’s summer dress?

There was in both
antsy anticipation.
For it was Sunday -
and there was church.

There will be gospel singing,
staunch shows of good will and fellowship,
followed by fervent prayers
spurred by some vacant need
to bring on glorious highs and thrills.

There will be the crafted sermon,
the munch of cracker flesh
followed by the drinking
of Christ’s chilled sweetened blood,
and then, always in awkward silence,
the clearing of some one’s throat
as the collection plate begins to float.

But O’ the crash that comes
when Sunday’s gone.
How to fix those two empty days
until Wednesday?
Then - even as going down the steps
out to the parking lot,
subtle, nerves on edge -
creeps in that gnawing feeling,
that need... to score... again.