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 niño 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?