So, you’ve been working detox
for eight years seeing the repeat 
business as a curse, grumbling 
about how the clients never learn,
not knowing what ever happened
to all those you never see again.
What’s wrong with this picture?  
The pay’s not bad––you’re not
the head honcho––but you help people,
and the bennies are better than okay. 

Anyway. You run into this guy 
on the street. He kind of hops 
around with one leg shorter
than the other, and he says 
he knows you from work,
but you don’t remember him, 
and it’s pretty clear why
as you listen to the way his whiney voice 
seems to be asking for the love
no one ever gave him.

He’s smaller than you are
and you’re no giant.
But you listen, because that’s 
what you’ve learned to do,
and as you look down at him, 
he thanks you with down cast eyes 
for the many times you did listen
and for the wisdom of those poems 
you used to read out loud 
before each group you ran. 

He tells you he’s been sober, now, 
for a year––just arrived back in town
and already he’s got a night job 
at the Sunoco near the interstate. 
He jabbers on about how he spent the year 
working at the Salvation Army, how he 
begins and ends each day with a prayer
and all the minutia in between, 
which have helped his spiritual growth.		
He goes on and on until his speech
begins to feel a little forced, a little faster, 
and you’re not quite following him,
so you fix your eyes on the ground		
as if this can help you listen.			

Then, . . . he stops. . . .			

You look up into his eyes; he winces
as he asks if you could help him 
get a job like you have. 
He wants to give back a little,
carry the message, as they say.

You can only imagine what your 
wooden, professional face 
must look like as you let this sink in,
and you think about how many years
you were sober before you began
this work, but he turns and hops away
before you can answer,

and as you watch him go, suddenly, 
you think of Jiminy Cricket.

And then, you think of Pinocchio . . . 
how he changed into a real boy at the end.