Stealing Time in a Cold Place

I steal time to write poems,

Food to satiate my soul, pencil, paper,

Pocket, this last one ever the pauper's,

Impoverished for pesos, favors, faith,

currencies I need to buy dollars

The politicos of my homeland

Squander to pay off padres,

Compadres, pawns, patrons, fawning

Defendants of all this charade,

This circle of a circus in this

Black comedic clime, country to our

Chaos, begotten of sin and salvation.

I write of our chanting from afar,

On the sullen skies shares sorrow

For sorrow with starving lines, sentences

About magical men dying while bearing

The santo niƱo of a God in Quiapo.

On this 357 and 2, the Gardena, the Metro,

I steal time to write of my work

To sell my soul, mind, word.

Aurelio S. Agcaoili

Gardena/Los Angeles, CA



The 357 and 2 are buses plying the Gardena-LA & Gardena-Torrance, CA route. Hey, amigos, I write poems on buses

and on waiting sheds. The poems nag me when I do not write them. It is only when I have written them that I am able to have

my own good share of sleep. Pray tell, how do you call this phenomenon? While I wait for the red light to go green, I survey the possibilities, check on my break, grab the pen and the notebook on the passenger seat and scribble what I can when

the word/s come/s. If I fail in this process, I repeat the word/s in my mind, recite it/them and try writing them again when the traffic stops. So I call this as my own way of stealing time. But is there ever any sane poet?

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