Runs forefinger and thumb
through her hair attempting
to straighten & smooth.
Mesh wire table holds
her third to-go cup,
each with less lipstick stains
than the last. Not going home,
just sitting in the napalm afterburn.  

His feet slide back, lips slurping
the spillage from the red solo cup.
Unabashed he yells across
the ping pong table
“Slap my butt & shorten my jorts!”
He’ll go home when they carry him.  

In the funky shotgun
downtowner built for two
a finicky calico re-arranges
the crochet blanket & kneads the couch.
Triangle head on paws
she watches wrens weave
a nest in the gutter.