Average Evening in Cubao
Here again is the capital of my body,
Ever-beating and ever-busy
where veins and skylines lead.
Everybody brings their baggage here,
from jeepney aisles to karinderyas and jazz bars,
where you can dress up, be whoever you want
and the stations take you to where dirty dreams die.
Motel room lights scatter like cigarette butts
but if I wanted to swap sweat beads with strangers,
I’d have packed myself into the train
with the rest of the fish in the sea.
This might as well be home, but it’s not—
just the sure-fire way to get there.
Loud with the multitude of possibilities
baring itself, all stoplight red and sewer water grey,
like an open wound to what seems to be
a clean slate each time.
Listen closely. The streets are almost begging:
Pass through me, please.
Hurriedly. Tenderly. In whatever capacity.
