Intersection

The sun yawned.
With a reluctant blink, it faded
into the horizon.
Cars and jeepneys slow down and pass
around the U-turn slot ‘neath the flyover
That carried buses momentarily beside
the train.

Horns blow, boosting the incessant rumble
of tired machines.
Headlights, like newly awoken eyes, shine
and show the way.
Streetlights along the railings of the underpass,
drown the darkness emanating from the tunnel that swallows
buses and jeepneys and takes them below
the highway and sends them out to the other side
of Quezon Boulevard.

Workers, with drooping eyes and heavy steps
march towards the intersection
of the highway and the boulevard. They walk
past the garden, struggling to stay green
on the island of polluted cobblestones.
The tired evening, though so young, is hailed by palm
trees with brown leaves
almost touching the ground.

On the curb the pedestrians stop and line up, waiting
for jeepneys where they can squeeze themselves into
so they can go home.

A half-empty jeepney bypassed the MMDA agent.
It pulled up sharply just a step behind
the “No Unloading” sign.
A vagabond appears and
shouts “Fairview Market.” As a shepherd, he
herds the passengers that flock towards
the jeepney’s rear.

Once inside, they sit tightly:
side by side on the undivided seat.
A young man crouches by the rear door
as the jeepney inched forward
through the traffic. The passengers sit face-to-face
but with averted gaze, as if holding a hesitant council
about their destination without
even speaking a word. One to another,
some hold hands and pass
the coins towards the driver.

With gnarled hands, thick with a whole day’s worth
of dirt and grime, he accepts
the coins and asks where the originator will
Disembark. With a clink,
the coins drop
to the small wooden case on the makeshift
dashboard.

No song is aired in the jeepney except the tired breathing
of the workers and laborers drowned
by the roar of the machine

That lulls them to sleep
That takes them away from the highway
And leads them home.

With gnarled hands thick with dirt, the driver
turns the wheel
of this vehicle traversing the boulevard.
Countless swerving while shifting lanes,
the jeepney reaches the Quezon circle
and joins the chorus
of countless cars and buses.
He rolls the bills of Quezon’s face and Osmeña’s.
He inserts them on the intersection
of the ceiling and the windshield.

His eyes, teary, red from all the smoke of
a whole day’s work, still on the road, long after
the sun has gone down, taking people
to where they can rest, albeit momentarily.

Rainy June Morning

I stepped out into the road from the passenger seat
of the jeepney and the rain started to pour down
hesitantly. I trotted down the pedestrian lane,
dodging the droplets of rain that reached out to me.

In the absence of an umbrella I hid under
my silken jacket. The droplets penetrate
my makeshift shelter and it becomes heavier
as I walked towards the Quezon-Avenue flyover.

I crossed the highway. It has always been easy,
in sunny days and rainy days—when I’m alone.
I stick to the edges of the pedestrian lane
and raise my left hand to stop the cars and jeepneys
‘til I reach the other side.

Without my umbrella, I joined the throng
of the labor force hurrying to work
this Monday morning. I ascend the escalator
of the Quezon Avenue MRT Station and I’m lost
in the crowd.

Inside the train I feel warm in the company
of strangers, huddled together
because of the hurry that drives them on.
My right hand clasps my wet silken jacket
and my left hand holds on
to the handle bars to keep me
from falling…

I remember her hand clutching my elbow
when we walked side by side and I held
her umbrella through the rain on a Monday afternoon
of June two years back when we were still
in the university.

And now she is out of this sun-dried, rain-drenched country.
Overseas…
Perhaps she beholds her dreams slowly unfold. And I,
here in the train, on a rainy June morning, think of
the girl with the umbrella in the pouring rain.
As the rain splatter on the window
of the train, I snuggle with total strangers.

Where Has the Fire Gone?

Your eyes twinkle with a subdued glow, so unlike
the fiery ones i saw when I first
had a glimpse of you writing
your ideas.

What happened?

Is it the weather affecting your mood?
Is it the season of your life today?
Is it because you lost something
dearly valued?
Have you lost your way in a maze?

Or is it because you've spent the embers
keeping your heart on fire?

The eyes are but the chimney
of the fireplace within your chest.

And when we ate sundae today
I asked why.

Your eyes averted my gaze,
I don't even see them twinkle now.

What happened?