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She couldn't work.
How could she,
for she had a job to do.
She had to keep that percentage up,
maintain sublime homeostasis,
that perfect level
of alcohol to blood.
Her occupation was primitive,
survival.
She was a hunter gatherer
of bottles and cans.
She thanked God daily
for lazy litter bugs;
how those life-saving dimes
quite often kept
her morning shakes at bay.
Trekked miles
on swollen ankles.
Birthed blisters, bruises, cracked feet.
Moved mountains,
crossed oceans.
No matter the weather;
whether stinging sleet, hurling hail,
blizzards, heatwaves, drenching gales.
She,
at least,
promised herself
preparedness.
Each moment
consumed
her need
to consume.
Her driving force.
Her essential purpose,
measured
sadly,
simply,
in liquid ounces.