Why not? The fog was pretty thick - and we were
rarely sober. Don't you think that's an excuse?
Perhaps you think there isn't any excuse for what we were up to.
Sometimes we were six, but we were always three,
composing poems in shades of
purple, colored by Tokaya, vodka and Hungarian red wine.
We went from real Budweiser to bad poetry to bed.
You and me and Joe.
You at least have to admit that it was an interesting experience.
Joe's heartbeat beneath my ear, my heartbeat beneath yours.
Is that really something to feel guilty about?