a poem by Roger B Rueda
Under the leaden sky, the mangroves are often
full of gloom and despair,
their existence wrapped in mystery,
the riverwater as silent as the grave,
the eerie noise
of the wind howling through the leaves,
my eyes filled with dread
as I gaze them,
me feeling numb on a Mandurriao jeepney
on the way to my house towards SM City.
Funny ha-ha!
Behind the mangroves, I’ve been there.
The once-empty site
is now covered with buildings.
At a great distance,
I crossed the street over
quite a while and
went shopping at Gaisano City
and bought a pair of wash pants
in a midnight sale.
There, the street is wedged solid
with the near-constant traffic gridlock.
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