Poetry by | February 7, 2010

He took his time and made up his mind,
now he talks in front with spectacles on:

“This is not a way of life—it’s the way I am.”
So the line goes; and being sarcastic
makes him feel good, like a pat on his
square-model shoulders.

He glanced at the sun, noticed it’s early;
so he lingered and walked like forever.

“It is not fashion, babe, it’s passion!”
So he proclaims! And comments, rants,
insults with pure joy and pride—like
a panelist in one of those ramp realities.

He decided to go. Erased the colors off,
brought the curl down and took it all off.

“This is life—we have to live it, garl!”
There he winks and checks for extra
make-up on his face. Then walks out,
away to the center of the city.

He’s here at last. Two hours late or something.

I can’t take that against him, no!—it’s he
who taught me how to skinny dip under the stars,
and it’s he who taught me how eat sarcasm.

(And I’ll gently take the tiara off him.)

Rory Ian Bualan teaches physics at the Ateneo high school.

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