my father looked like a toddler as he
stuffed his face with all that Chinese food,  black bean
and red sauces
sliding down his chin   my mother ate with
puckered lips as if the food wasn’t   good
but it was,  wasn’t it?

And I contemplated   about the fate
of my children   and whether the
thoughts  of dying   were sinful
and also about the   whereabouts
of my dead grandmothers  and  ancestors
and let’s not forget
the pets

I came home with a full stomach
but ate some more   in the kitchen
lights off  
my mother was on her tablet
I kept wondering if she’d look up
and ask:
what do you have in your pockets?

Well, would you like to know?
Some guava stuffed pastries, made by
a little Cuban joint in Miami International Airport
And about four slices of white bread.

And I stuffed it all in my pockets.