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It is summer; they sit on dull grass for the light tree above it and because the air is too sticky to stand in.
They smell of dirt and the clay of the earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
A Boy and a Girl,
not yet old enough to buy their own cigarettes.
A giant slurpee is wedged in between the Girl's knees--
it sweats and draws rivulets down her legs.
She absently chews on a pen cap, jaw pulsating and the plastic already drenched in her spit.
Occasionally, she stops chewing, holds down her left nostril with a bitten down index finger and sniffs hard.
The Boy is circling the park, the Girl still somehow his center point as he walks carefully, delicately.
The circles grow smaller and are smooth,
only broken by a halt as he picks up a redeemable short.
The Girl shoves on her sunglasses and the Boy is standing in front of her, beaming;
his left hand is cupped and piled with almost twelve dirty cigarettes.
Her smile wraps around a Parliament, chapped lips careless. The Boy sits down, humming-
opening his other palm: a one and a half inch straw end.
Drawing out a packet of sunshine, he taps two fat lines on top of the back of her hand,
already offered and steady.
The humidity quivers; all is reverently quiet.
She sucks up the last splashes of muddled ice.
The plastic rattles and
without hesitation, he breathes her in.