Saturday mornings, their father arrived home
to the jingle jangle of Korean-colored cartoons.
He set down the house shaped box
of donut holes and soon his daughters faces
were covered in powdered sugar and red jelly.
He sat in the big mean leather armchair,
slurped his coffee and read the Chicago Tribune.
After his paper cup was empty,
he walked into the garage to cut wood.
Soon, his face was speckled by sawdust and sweat—
but not as bad as his covered ‘57 Chevy.
When he heard the feet of his sweet daughters
racing up and down the stairs—
or a broken melody fingering out on the piano,
he knew it was 11 o’clock. No more cartoons.
He drove his daughters to K-Mart,
bought them each a coloring book and crayons;
Then, took one to gymnastics practice
and the other to horseback riding.
Coming home again, there was always
at least one donut hole remaining, by that time.
He stood by the kitchen sill, set it in his mouth,
and let the crumbs fall into his beard;
Letting the big black poodle lap them up;
His buttoned up flannel belly, rolling with laughter,
as she did so.
Soon, it would be time to pick his daughters up,
drive through a car wash,
and set down purse shaped boxes of Chinese.
His daughters went straight for the fortune cookies—
wondering what was in store for next Saturday.