Leave it to Buble
Each week night we drag
through the door, plop a plastic popcorn bowl
between us. We play a Michael Buble CD. Oh,
so lush and mellow, he sings that it had better
be tonight, croons "Cuando, Cuando, Cuando" —
when indeed. As a kid, I watched
Ward Cleever return from work, fresh
as mouthwash. He could pounce on June,
tidy up his sons' homework, even fix the car.
Michael's seductive samba on
'The Way You Look Tonight' draws my hand
to your balding head. We get up —
I to type minutes, you to do laundry.
June and Ward sway to Sir Buble,
watched by dust bunnies.