Tobacco spills into her tea-stained lap
as she squirms tightly on the chair
in the church hall this cold December evening.

Where to pick up the pieces from?
What to do with them?
She hears the serenity prayer
but cannot remember the story from the chair.

It gets better, they say,
day-by-day-by-day.
Outside, 
nobody shakes & fears like she.

Inside, a kind of mad jollity
grips & guides her to the tea.
What is all this talk?
Taking it hour by hour?

She listens silently
to tales of male depravity.

She drank her last bottle 
twenty-eight days ago.
Outside, signs of the winter dawn
she hears the birds' sing
she listens closely to every note.