AA Meeting (ROUND 2)

Let's workshop this poem, one I long refused to tweak in any way, about how tenuous the grasp on sobriety can be and the unexpected moments of interpersonal connection that can sustain it.

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AA Meeting 

That hand kept fidgeting metallic ratatats
too broken, too shifty in accent, to stand—
let alone to grab onto any pattern beyond
the brainstem wall scrabblings of a feral cat
in a drown barrel (light shut by a rusty lid).
Knuckle staccato shook the entire church  
basement, so it seemed. I scowled left—
a plea, now open, deflected by desolation.

For me, it was merely sober day seven. 
And my own hand darted out, stilling
whacko rudiments against the chair. Eyes
in our circle converged on the touch—
a perfect excuse to go home, to mainline
oblivion. Yet it did not slump. Nor did it
tear free. It held my own the full session—
faithful. And I spoke for the first time.

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