FUMES

Mother does her nails
while watching Monday Night Football.
By her side I practice
long division with a number 2 pencil.
Scratch, erase, scratch.

The German Shepherd pants 

on the linoleum floor wearing a hexing grin.
Father hangs from the door in traction
reading Forbes with his head in a sling.
Fred Biletnikoff goes long.

Cotton balls and acetone take the polish off.
Howard Cosell's cocksure cadence, a weevil in the ear.
Father slurps his martini like a suckerfish.

The tiny brush lays down the first clear coat.
Stroke, stroke, stroke.
All those little half-moons getting glazed.

And it is then I know my father’s spine is made of taffy,
the dog’s saliva is fish emulsion,
and the number 3 is the remainder 
that will carry me into infinity.