POETRY ON MEDIUM

The Gig Called Sobriety

It’s big, this gig called sobriety

After a year sober, it’s big, this gig called life.

I’m galivanting in the spotlight of the sun, strutting in the yard with my granddaughter. My body is an instrument of rhythm, prancing and high stepping, the Grand Marshal of a New Orleans parade. I make laughter shimmy and shine.

I’m not trying to outrun the sunset anymore. I’m leaning into the rugged storms. Hightide waves shatter against ancient rocks, I hear Beethoven hovering over a piano, hammering the keyboard. Passionate salt spray drenches my flapping winter coat.

It’s rhythmic ecstasy, unraveling in a slow groove. My wife and I improvise an aching ballad on our bodies. She rests her head on my chest, syncopating our heartbeats. My fingers trace the birthmark on her back, playing a smoldering riff.

It’s a wicked temptation, this body heat, this blood boiling in our veins. I wrap my wife’s soul in the sultry heat of a bossa nova beat. We’re naked but feel like we’re dressed to the nines, ready to rag it up.

I’m feeling it, the spin of the earth, the pull of the moon, the smile and tears of God. I’m the resilience of a Monterey Cypress clinging to an ocean cliff, the moon-filled meditation of a glassy lake at night, the murmuring bliss of a river winding its way home to the sea. When I’m with my wife, God ladles stardust into our eyes.

I’m telling you, it’s even bigger. It’s Satchmo breathing life into his trumpet, transcending human limitations, offering the grace of music, the sacred communion between artist and audience. It’s got swing, man, this gig called sobriety.