I am still waiting
for my father to wake.
1:30 p.m. hits—
finally! The sad man wakes.
He strolls out of his room
to the kitchen,
my Mom shortly behind.
He notices me stewing
at the counter, arms crossed, lips puffed
as I point to the broken cross,
which fell that morning.
Chamuca.
My parents converse like
the wind; quiet whispers
from their eyes,
before Dad returns to his room,
emerging in a gray cotton shirt and chanclas.
“Your mother knows these things,”
he says as he lifts me into the truck,
and calls The Morenita.
