They Come Into The Rooms

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They come into the rooms

moving through the cigarette haze

and ground littered with dropped ash

 

Foot in the door. The hard part is over.

 A knowing smile. Palms are clasped in greeting,

then maybe a nod, hug, fist bump

 

The rooms are always old

Odor of water-stained ceiling tiles

Walls of worn painter’s beige

 

Holding cups with trembling hands

As a stranger pours liquid speed,

tastes of cheap stale coffee.

 

Walk past a clock,

glancing at the sign of steps,

hung high so all can see

 

Fall into a creaky chair, near the exit.

Phones turned off and purses tucked away.

A throat is cleared.

 

The podium microphone is feared.

Thoughts of talking bring shudders.

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 kind, cruel, 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