I still remember that beige wall phone
in the house on Payne Avenue.
I called the number from the yellow pages,
back when pages still meant something.
The voice on the other end
checked my insurance
like it was summer heat,
like it was nothing unusual.
Can you be at the airport in a few hours?
I said yes.
The wife wanted me to do something
about my drinking.
Florida waited through the clouds
like a different life
I didn’t deserve yet.
Boca Raton.
Three weeks of borrowed clarity.
Salt air.
White light.
Humid nights.
People trying to put themselves
back together
without admitting they were broken.
And the scars lay deep.
Once I made it through detox
and the withdrawals,
I traded in my pajamas
for swim trunks.
We went to the beach every day.
The water was warm.
Too warm, to be honest.
Like a bubble bath away from home,
clear enough to see your own mistakes
floating just beneath you.
Little strange lizards everywhere,
darting like thoughts
you can’t quite hold onto.
First time I’d ever seen them.
First time for a lot of things.
All the meals were spread out
like a Roman buffet.
I got needed nutrition,
and listened more than I spoke.
I met people who looked like they
understood
the language of destruction,
and I learned things
I didn’t yet know how to use.
The sun didn’t ask questions.
It just kept showing up,
giving me a healthy glow.
On the flight home,
I drank quietly,
like nothing had changed
except geography.
I figured it was a needed break,
and I would control it better.
Wouldn’t let it dig its claws in,
grow wings, and take flight.