Chaos swirls around with the sounds
Of Agua Dulce on a Sunday afternoon.
Música ranchera and pollo frito
Are in the works as the head of household
Roams around their palace,
Taking stock and catering to their son,
The prince.
The boy is an older terrier with a heart
Of solid gold, who lay idly by the couch-
Thinking of the chicken he can’t eat anymore.
Amongst the cacophony and brass
We hear footsteps being made by
A blue haired siren, who paces and paces
With poised anxiety trying to make the
Best of it all, despite being awoken
Less than an hour ago with the blaring
Vocals of our resident digital mariachis.
The chef, an older man and the head’s
Father, strides in with a box of empty beers.
He excitedly yells out “Perchi!” to his kin upon entering and receives a tired “Señor”
In response, a ritual repeated at least 40 times a day.
After a time, the music stops.
Everyone finds a new task to give their attention to and restlessness continues to reign supreme, as if the people were being chased by stillness itself.