From the Fishouse

We were the newest broke Mexicans to settle in Indio,
Mom having quit her job at school
To rest her neck, tense from hovering
Like a desk lamp over the Special-Ed kids.
Albert and I, barely hip-high
To our mother, unaware of our budget,
Salivated as we thought about the dry buns,
The Grade B patties of Argentine beef at McDonald’s—
For what our TV eyes believed was the best lunch in town.

At McD’s, we paid for two cheeseburgers.
Mom pulled out her blue purse, laid out
A buck thirty-eight—
Two dull quarters,
Six dimes, five nickels,
And three parking lot pennies.
The cashier’s forefinger counted
The change as Mom held up the line,
While the regulars tapped
Their feet behind her. She stood red-faced,
For these burgers slid towards her
On a bright plastic tray.

Bun by bun, Mom bulldozed
With a plastic knife the spread of ketchup,
Mustard and chopped onion,
Before slicing the burgers to give each of her sons a half.
Satisfied, we ventured through a rainbow
Of tubes and balls with the other kids,
Their stomachs full of Big Macs or Happy Meals.
But we were happy too—better than staying
At home on a Saturday
Eating potato tacos after our yard chores.
Did Mom sit there and watch us play?
I only remember her fingers neatly wrapping
The remaining half in the greasy red and yellow paper,
Then tucking the lump away in her purse, sustenance for later.