The Poet

[Written April 2007]

He scratches out lines
On whatever his hands chance upon:
His weather-beaten, hopelessly outdated laptop,
A page in an abandoned notebook,
A receipt from yesterday’s coffee break,
Or the back of his hand, even
Words scamper away from him otherwise
Skittish and imprecise,
It is a game and of utmost necessity
To hold them down,
And force them to take shape

Minute things trigger the impulse:
Perhaps it is a conversation between strangers
In the jeepney he rode today
Where, fascinated by the idle talk, he randomly tuned in
Like twiddling the radio to capture a stray frequency,
Or running into a scavenger child, whooping and running
As he passes, a straw bag for his treasures
Hitched on a bony shoulder, tapping on the sidewalk with his scavenging stick,
Stooping slightly to snatch up an empty plastic bottle before anyone else does:
It is worth P50 per kilo at the nearest junkyard

The city speaks to him when it does,
When the fading strains of the videoke session next door
Signal that it must be early morning,
And people do have to retire to bed,
If only to have enough strength for the next day’s
Drinking marathon
He listens for the retreating footsteps,
The cheerful farewells and the too-loud ribbing,
The dying whirr of engines as they pass
And settle on some uneven and unpaved sidewalk

At night, sans the sound of crickets
And cooing birds
He lies awake: prophet and lover,
Arrested by the dirt and the grit and the beauty
Of this overcrowded, overpopulated city
Uncompromising and unapologetic as it is
He longs for the lull of forest and sea
But knows they have no place here
Knows they could not cleanse this forsaken place,
Where people have learned to bury their lives
With dignity, with humor and with peace,
The way they mourn their dead.