It is really like this, amigo,
this willful awaiting the coming
of clear clouds from
the cold days when providence
does not come on cue.
We take the free lunch at Virgie's as usual,
order the same half-and-half meal
to save on precious dough and desire
as we live our daily lives,
deep & dark as the Redondo nights
that we count against the days
of numbering what is left of dinners and breakfasts
that will never be reserved for us.
Like the prosaic in the hunger,
there is poetry in writing up of our pain
we now know, the same pain we
have given a name lately.
There is hope in the grey clouds,
still & calm, the hope cool & collected
like the way we all are all the time.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili