A girl with a wrinkled floral skirt
takes her place on the old grey couch
next to a boy with a cherry face.
Her shaking fingers produce
sickly green waves of cheap tequila and syrup,
oozing out onto cracked leather.
Cherry face shines her a maraschino smile,
and calls for another drink.
She squirms awkwardly in place,
as if the motion would bury her beneath its cushions.