Tonight I can’t ride my car
because it’s Wednesday.
But if it’s either Tuesday or Thursday,
it still won’t make a difference,
Because I don’t have a car.
I was waiting for a jeepney ride;
I felt cold like Love’s suicide.
Everything dies: the plants, the trees
Sometimes even the memories.
You know it’s sad but true
That sometimes even Love dies too.
A young woman approached me.
“Short time, pogi?” she asked.
“I want to,” I told her,
“but I don’t have any money.”
That was a lie of course:
I still have seven pesos and fifty centavos.
This girl’s a dead ringer of Anne Curtis,
Bob Hoskins and Phil Collins.
She touched my shoulder:
A part of me understood.
She looked into my eyes:
My hairs now all stood.
I had goosebumps under my arms
On my balbon chest
And all over my Zanjoe Marudo body.
I was shivering with all my might –
first with pleasure then with fright.
And she said, “He looked just like you.”
Maintaining my dignity, I asked, “Who?”
“Bernardo Carpio,” she said wistfully.
“my hoodlum boyfriend who poisoned me.”
I took a deep breath. Poise! I reminded me.
I asked politely, “Miss, are you dead?”
She floated in the air.
“Dili man ’Dong,” she said.
“Waray man ibidinsya!” she added.
And – poof! – she vanished.
Avenida photo courtesy of SkyscaperCity.com
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