a year ago, we were doing cocaine
near the Mississippi River,
bopping around the Big Easy,
banging black chicks
and fighting bouncers,
while a man carried a goat on his shoulders.
we promised not to write about
that wild, wicked weak weekend,
but Facebook reminded me from Victor,
and the memories that were buried
by hurricanes (the drink and the storm)
come pouring in.
the sweet dirty sheets of regret
change over time, under strides,
turning to fondness
at the lessons labored,
the Harry situations survived
and the last time we ever saw Paul.