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.