There's a little boy eating undercooked tobacco fruit
and drinking water by the green
Sister's in leather
lighting nothing
smoking the air in her hand
Saying, "Shut up Raymundo, I'm thinking."
Sweat bees light jewels on our breasts,
pinch too hard like over-eager lovers.
We wipe our brows on your shirt and say,
"Hey, what time is the bus coming, anyway?"
The boy drains his glass.
Sister is picking at scabs.
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