Russ and I are sitting on the sidewalk,
him nipping from his bottle,
me puffing on my cigar.
"I'm not gonna lie to ya," he says,
"I'm an alcoholic." His nose
is a purple mushroom.
"Me too," I say,
"sober 16 years tho."
We talk about life, death.
"I tried killin' myself once," he says.
"Walked out on the bridge
but I guess the parta me that wanted to live
I nod. "When I was first sober
I walked out there too. But I couldn't figure out
how to clear the train tracks."
"So THAT's why you didn't jump?" he said,
"because of the train?"
"Yeh," I said, "pretty much."
He laughed, then I laughed.
Because we could.