That gratitude is not of me
That soft twinkly gratitude
Of a gracious god
No, the gratitude of me
Is a gnarly beast with its claws
Clenched around my heart
I am reminded of this this morning
Driving south, with a podcast, Clever Creatures, playing
Through the radio, an episode of seven twenty-one twenty twenty-one
When the host mentions, sitting on his windowsill
A thirty-year-old port
And that, that is what I miss, I
Never realized, that of all the things I miss
That, that aged port, oh my, the aged
Port, the softness, the tartness, the all-enveloping
Mouthfeel of an aged port
Gratitude that I had the pleasure
Of ever having tasted that
But that, not the vodkaginwhiskeyryebeerwine, is
What, I never knew until he mentioned, as I drove listening
That is what I miss
But not the everything else that goes with it, with
Even the thought of a taste, that beast of all that I lost
In the years of non-recovering alcoholism
Rears its head
And the grasping claw of gratitude
Clenches and unclenches around my heart
It is never easy
But it gets easier.
PWS 2021.01.17
Six Notebooks 