Booze Is Her Bitch

Hides behind make-up, a business suit,
an apron, tight-lipped silence,

half-truths.

Double-deals, smooths, soothes,
and slithers in.

Steals, shames,
another piece conquered.

Another loss
handshakes the old losses,

all the wrong choices.

The Bitch has spokes
on the wheel of excess.

She doesn’t knock but enters
the door opened.

Doesn’t ask permission
but accepts the invitation,

pushes to the spin.

Doesn’t withhold but satisfies
the gnawing need to forget.

This morning Mom dive-bombed
into DT’s, vitals tanked.

In ICU, she reckoned to take
a couple of rounds out of the Bitch.

And won.