The November Meeting

a poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

When I drove to the meeting
the evening was dark,
the hall badly lit, cold
and chairs were creaky and hard.

One by one they told how happy they were
now that they were no longer in the grip of
fearful tyrant alcohol.

They spoke about anxiety,
hate and resentment,
like they were unique
that no one in the world
suffered like them.

A lull, I felt that I was expected to speak,
told lies and wondered
if I was the only mendacious person the hall.

Meeting over
everyone seemed happy but me,
it was raining when driving home
and knew that I had missed the message.