An infant quirk of a pine
with aerosol frosting, spangles,
and bulbs that blink red-blue-gold.
Manolito, three days home, they've put

in his picket-fence crib,
paper diaper cinched tight,
eyes squinted in a mask
that looks Chinese or in pain.

Asleep. Trailing sighs and smiles
they tiptoe out to where the Magnavox
screen extolls some producto
whose logo's a crystal star.

She glances up at the window
brimming with sodium light.
And, mira , snow begins to fall
like manna in the warming air

as from down the avenue a taxi
beeps a brass triad. Then an offended
wail summons mother, father,
todo el mundo back to his side.