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sits on his hands and waits for
the bottle, his friend taking
a long quaff, filling his mouth
with the whiskey he stole from
his dad's liquor cabinet,
venturing beyond his age,
turning his eyes to a sky
that widens with every gulp.
"Jesus," the boy says, jabbing
his friend's gut, "Save some for me."
But he's too far gone. He won't
give it up. It is as though
he understands what a kid
like him will become, what hell
awaits when he gets home, knows
that this betrayal might be
the only refuge he's got,
just feeling—enough to be
alive, a satisfying
heat in contrast to a world
that burns the whole way down but
doesn't offer any warmth.