12 AM.
The jeepney stirred,
and I stared a boy.
It was orange… No, it was brown.
The shirt he had on was brown.
I don’t know, and didn’t know.
I’m pretty sure those were bulletholes.
He hollered across Escario street.
He walked and, oh yes he did.
He dared walk at a man’s pace.
One, Two, Three, Four
His head down, counting his saddling steps.
It owned the rhythm of melancholic blues.
The boy was beat.
And the dust on his feet had told it all.
Maybe he had walked a mile or two.
Maybe he had walked hours, a couple or more.
But I don’t know, and I just don’t know.

His skin tanned.
His hair tousled.
His arms gripped the saddlebag.
And he gripped hard, alright.
One, Two, Three, Four
His head down, and owned the rhythm of melancholic blues.
He hollered and then he paused.
He looked at a man.
A man in a pressed white polo and hard-gelled hair.
A man who stood, not even half a man the boy was.
Then, the man bought an egg.
An egg that he cracked and littered.
And the boy kept the coins he gained.
From the litterbug, he earned.
He resumed steps, he did.
One, Two, Three, Four
His head down, and now his steps a rhythmic Jazz.

12 AM
The jeepney hastened.
and I stared a boy.
The exhaust blurred the view, now a mirage.
I turned, sat and shifted.
In my mind, I recalled.
A boy in a brown shirt with bulletholes.
A boy who dared walk the streets of Escario.
A boy with a saddlebag of cooked duck eggs.
A boy who owned steps of a rhythmic blues melancholia.
A boy who yelled Balot that echoed.
Then, the jeepney hastened more at 12 AM.
And I stared a boy who wore a poor man’s holler.