Fixing Abuela’s Robot

I am fixing abuela’s broken robot,
replacing the motherboard which is the size of a cricket,

black and silver lines down its back,
no real eyes but god the things it can see and do.

Abuela uses it for normal stuff,
sends it to the tienda,

out to the jardin to pick the yerba buena,
to hang clothes on the clothesline.

Abuela does not believe in washing machines.
I know, I know, I know what you’re saying to yourself,

then how come she’s got a robot.
Well, all I can say is that abuelas are not to be questioned.

“Abuela, your robot is ready.” I tell her,
and she puts the son of a gun to work right away.