Poetry by | March 2, 2014

It is not fun, you know,
standing here in Claveria
with the jeepney barkers
mocking my uncertainty —
shouting names of places
where to go.

Where should I go?

It is funny, you know,
when vendors offer sympathy
besides sliced fruits or fried skins
and you nod, force a smile because
you don’t eat street food.
But then you go look around
the streets of Bolton, San Pedro,
even Torres to satisfy a craving
for crabs and eat-all-you-cans.

Perhaps, perhaps.

But them barkers’ voices ring loud:
Sasa! Panacan! SM Lanang! Toril!

Then, red light.
You cross the street,
walk aimlessly.
Hands in pocket,
jacket zipped up,
your steps doubtful.
Then you feel:
it’s time to go.

But where?!

Rory is a Physics teacher eating, praying and loving in Indonesia.

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