SWARM OF raised hands floats on the streets.
Jeepneys with rusty metals flood Noval.
Stoplights at the crossroads
hold the world still as they drain familiar faces.
Orange afternoon hues blur into darkness,
Tired corners of the city float into thin air
Reeking gasoline from Petron,
black smoke of old engines,
pushing me into a corner I detest.
Marking familiar faces, hopping on buses
as I pray for the mobility of this jeepney,
included in my prayers is a collective bargain
of desperate pleas for uninterrupted green lights.
To move through manic days and hollow nights.
In these hues, crimson is what
God had heard us pray for.
A necessary breath for a weary soul like us.
Pondering in broad daylight, reaching out
loose changes from hands I do not know,
envisioning dead trees on my table,
shifting pages of an unvisited world,
withholding me back from the
euphoric highs I’ve long desired.
Before the jeepney lurches forward,
I nestle in this brief moment of forever.
Eleven one peso coins rustle in my purse.
Still itching. I let them wait. F
