i must be alive, since i am writing this stanza
after i walked you home and said goodnight,
even though it was morning. i must be alive.
you see, one likes a pint of lager, or cider
for that matter, while the other gets intoxicated
with words. but eventually we let it go, settling
for a regular cuppa, or trying to coffin teabags
brewed with tepid water.
hidden pilcrow 