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Cherry's mom drinks beer
day and night and night and day
angering, sour breath.

Twenty-four bottles
fat, brown, icy and cold
for us, when she's out.

Till then we listen
watch her engines rev and spark
fueled by alcohol.

Itching for a fight
she spews a slurry of words:
...You're not my child. Drink.

Your real mom's crazy.
She left you, wandered away.
...In my house now. Drink.

You cut that picture
from a magazine. Not her
...You're pathetic. Drink.

Buddy's my real child.
You're taking food from his mouth.
...Yours is dirty. Drink.

Sweet Cherry Candy
we'll survive this nightmare. Friends.
It's dark. She's out. Go.

Bare feet on wet grass
we run into the black night.
Mud between our toes.

Down a gravel path
it cuts but we can't feel it.
Grit between our toes.