Message from a former tenant, August 24, 2012

Turn at the corner of intersecting streets.
There are lightposts to illuminate the dark,
     your perseverance,
and a blanket of night punctured with stars.

Shun the tricycles, however silently convincing
they tell your destination is
farther than it is near.
Trust your feet more and the rope of words
     you now read.

You can count your steps or measure your breath:
    either way you'll find my place.
My place is gray, a facade forlorn
than the dead rivulet flowing behind
nameless, inconsequential.

I tell you where I am now because
nobody wants to be forgotten.
My mistake is a 10 year limbo that is adding more years.
If you find yourself deaf between claps
   and chants of your name,
remember a man engrossed with his shadows
and pray he has moved to another place.

During Habagat, August 8

The streets, with ankle-high waters, led
the ambulance to the nearest hospital
on the corner of Santo Rosario.
You heard its loud siren wail
while it traversed a dead night
that's gotten used to silences
after a disaster.

Ambulances - they've usually carried
stories that have gasped for breaths
after some kind of fight:
he must have been heroic
struggling against the rising water levels,
salvaging the scattered pieces
of his life swimming out the door;
she, overwhelmed by a beastly shadow,
panicked in the absence of the familiar
hands to clasp with hers;
a little kid, too adventurous, thought
he could survive the strong currents
since, amongst his friends, he's
the strongest swimmer.

In its last hurrah, the monsoon
tried to hush the wailing
by pounding the city with more rain.
You let your sigh escape, closed your eyes,
and in a world that's as indurated
as that callus on your left hand, prayed.