Purple Puto

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Was being had for lunch by a couple,

their faces looking famished,

pale, underfed,

their clothes – ukay-ukay ones

were much better,

an elevated patch of plants

their seat.

At our approach they hid

themselves behind a luxury car

and a squad car

parked along the street

across from a hall of justice

jarred by an earthquake.

I tried to point at the purple puto

they were eating but my friends

carrying their Chowking

and Greenwich takeaways

hadn’t got interested in it

as we all were about

to enter a hotel,

just happy about the colour.

I turned my face back

to sneak  a look at the couple

to see what they were doing:

They were kissing and cuddling

in front of scooting passers-by,

feeding each other

the purple puto. My friends were

busy with their iPhones and Samsungs.