It was a rainy November night-
it always seemed to be.
There was nothing to do
but drink through our cheap red wine
until our words sloshed together.

Sure, it was slowly killing us,
slowly drowning our livers.
But there was something about the drinking
that made us feel more alive than
anything.

We worked until we had a few bucks,
the few bucks turned into a bottle.
There was never more money,
but there was never not enough.
It wasn't paycheck to paycheck
but bottle to bottle.

Eventually we'd sing Billy Joel
or the Beatles,
happy to have each other,
but even happier to have the wine.

The rain continued on,
the wine continued on,
and our lives-
well, they continued on, too.