Towards evening, the smell of 
fried chicken filled the wooden
shed near the dorm.
The crates of Pilsen were sitting
in the corner stacked
in three piles for the night.
We sat down in circle 
inside the shed with bottles 
of Pilsen in front of us.
Its bubbling liquid fizzed at the top
and slide down its neck.
I pulled out a pack of cigarettes
and lit my smoke. Its thin wisp of
smoke curled into the air.
We cracked good jokes
laughed like a drain
and sang old Nepali numbers.
The bell at the church near CLSU rang
twice and the Pilsen crates
were beginning to empty. We opened 
the bottles of local ginebra & 
drank deep as a skunk
late into the night.