v2

At Pico
I could've still be walking
between flowers and rice fields
on stony paths that click
when the soles of my leather shoes
hit them on a Sunday afternoon
a shoulder bag clapping my hips
as I climb the concrete road
that turn jeepneys into squid
belching ink into air.

I could've still be hopping
on islands of wood blocks
and old tires mud on my socks
light rain on my head
on my way to that hovel
where I would see him sitting
there on that tattered table
all smiles and giggling
the smell of fried fish on the wall
his mother's lips on the dipper
hot steam blessing her face
the silence of his hands on the air
painting a life.

(A statement here.)

We must forgive ourselves from leaving.???

At Pico
picture the rice fields
and flowers between them
and stone paths to walk on
picture shoes—leather shoes
hitting stones at every turn
picture more leathers—bags
wrapped around your shoulder
hanging, dangling, hitting your hips
as you make your way toward
where he lives
picture him sitting there on that
tattered table, all smiles
the smell of fried fish on the wall
of the hovel
his mother's lips on the dipper
hot steam blessing her face
picture his smile
the silence of his hands on the air
painting a life
with you.

These were the afternoons
the afternoons of pure delight
of light rain outside
of mud on shoes.

At Pico, a hovel
a mother at the kitchen
a Deaf child giggling
was the life I pictured.

I pictured.