Canadian bacon sizzles in grease on the stove.
Mangos ripen as we speak, in delectable salsa on the table.
Powdered sugar makes Mom sneeze into the pie.
We'll still eat it.
Mom calls us to dinner.
An absent car.
A garage floor of old oil.
Dad's fixing the jalopy again.
Backfires, toot-toots of horns, screeching breaks--
and the loud rumble of the garage door closing.
I call Dad in to eat,
but he doesn't answer.
Out on the porch I bellow to him,
but he doesn't answer.
I stomp to the garage
and rap on the dented metal,
but he doesn't answer.
"Daddy?"
He looks up from the hood
with grease on his face
and rusty screws between his teeth.
In his hand is a bottle of green liquid.
"Don't want to get down the road
with no way to clean the windshield."
Impatient huffs, hungry gurgles, and rolling eyes
don't make him hurry any faster.
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