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Bob Hicok
Self help
I go to the basement of Saint Stephens
once a month, gather folding chairs into a circle
and say, my name is Bob and I'm a narcissist.
The meetings kill me because I'm alone
and have to smoke all the cigarettes and drink
all the coffee one expects when repenting.
There's a mirror I stare at while saying, go on,
and when I break down, I put my head
in my lap or ask me if I'd like to kneel
with me and pray. I never do because I know
some people want to feel superior and I think
I'm one of those people and I won't give me
that kind of advantage over me. Now and then,
I save a child from drowning or listen
to my wife, not to the openings
between the words but the actual words,
so I have something selfless to admit.
Through my help, I'm getting a little better
every day, which I take one day at a time.
I've noticed calendars do the same thing, I like
their attitude, Monday, Tuesday, very
methodical, likewise diaries, so sequential,
page after page listening to me say
I could have been just a little more
me today, how they accept my cursive,
that pretty swirl I add to the I, like therein
lies tumbling, that joy only I can feel
after sleep, when slipping out of dream
into my body, who do I find waiting for me
but me?