Chores

Pablo's heart is beating at half-speed.
He's sitting crooked on the couch,
smiling at the screen.

Grandfather's throwing fire
in the backyard
at all the passing cars.
Something wrong with this year's
model.

Natalie takes a damp cloth
to Pablo's forehead,
trying to make herself useful
or keep her mind off the clock.
Her prom date's already ten minutes late.
If he doesn't show, she'll be stood up
for the fifth year in a row.

Mother and I sweep breadcrumbs
in the kitchen. Push them into little pyramids,
pack them in the freezer then thaw them
in the fireplace.

Father should be home soon.
He'll wrestle Grandfather to the ground,
tell Natalie she's gorgeous and useless,
hook the jumper cables up to Pablo's left ear
and right hand, rev the engine.

Then we'll all settle in by the hearth,
breath in deep the pumpernickel fumes.