Prime real estate

These days all I can think about

is if I fog up

your head,

fill it with thoughts

about me. You said

I am too occupied

with myself. In love. 

I said no,

it’s not true. The truth is

the prime real estate –

my head – is occupied by you.

I said “prime real estate”

like it’s an expensive

place to live in.

But it’s not quite ready for occupancy:

My head is an empty room

with un-curtained windows.

A boy asked me once

where the “prime real estate” of my body is.

My eyebrows, I joked.

I thought about you, already

there, your shadow stuck

to the walls.

You,

yet to arrive at the door.

Note: I wrote this poem while stuck in Manila traffic. A boy really did send me a text asking me where the “prime real estate of my body” is :/ This should have been my reply — a poem for someone else.

Six

(A poem about kindergarten that I wrote five years ago, when I was 17. Forgive the cheesiness, but this has to be on my blog.)

elbows

It’s here at INTERNE T POETRY.

shoeshine boy

the little boy stoops
next to your shoes,
holding a dirty rag
in his hand. why does he want
to clean your shoes
when they are mildewed, stitches coming
loose, seams on the verge of exposing
your feet like a national secret?
your new shoes were a waste
of money; they pinched your toes
until they turned blue. the old shoes begged
to be worn. you look into
the boy’s eyes. they ask
for truth but not mercy. you let him run
his rag over your feet and later
when he is gone, you bend down
to check the state of your shoes,
only to see them clean
like they have never been
used at all.

Ode to Outlook

you stage a vigil
at your desk,
where you bow
before the altar
of your screen.

you genuflect
with every press
of send/receive,
but there is nothing
new for you.