Misery

How pathetic am I?
I'll tell you.
I'd get so lonely,
so depressed reading
all those deadly lady poets,
you know the ones:
Sylvia, Sexton, that crew.
I'd be sitting on the couch
with one of Anne's books,
more than likely the fairy
tale one, or the awful rowing
thing, whatever, and I'd get
so blocked I couldn't even
write my own suicide note.
I'd decided to end it all
the way Anne did: in the garage,
with the car on and a shaker full
of bone-dry martinis; my own
little Doesn't Have a Clue game.
So don't I try it, and doesn't
the car run out of gas.
I pass out all right but don't I
wake up with a killer hangover,
one so bad that if I could have
dragged my sorry ass back inside
the house, I would have fallen on
a carving knife just to put myself
out of that misery.
No such luck.
What I get instead is this bunch of
misguided Angels of Mercy,
holding my hand and directing me toward
a righteous path to recovery.
Let me tell you, that scene is
a hell of a lot worse than dying
thoroughly liquored in the garage.