They come into the rooms.
Moving through the cigarette haze.
Dropped ash and littered ground.
That first step inside is the hardest.
Palms are clasped with knowing eyes.
Then maybe a nod, hug, fist bump.
The rooms are always old.
Odor of water-stained ceiling tiles.
Walls of worn painter’s beige.
They hold cups with trembling hands.
Someone pours liquid speed.
The taste of cheap stale coffee.
Walk past a clock.
Glance at the sign of steps.
Hung high so all can see.
Find a creaky chair, near the exit.
Phones turned off and purses tucked away.
A throat is cleared.
Scared of the microphone on the table.
They shudder with fear.
Silence is their false armor.
Hoping someone else will read.
Maybe someday they will share.
A piece of themselves.
They are cheats, deceivers, selfish.
They are everyone and nobody.
By creed, they have no name.
They come into the rooms.
For help, for redemption, for time, for answers.
For life.
They come into the rooms.
