That night, that second,
when you were dying a thousand deaths
in my arms, I pulled my left hand from your waist
and lifted the bottle of San Miguel Beer on the table
and poured its remaining content all over me.
Then I, à la gremlin, multiplied into a thousand
first aiders (each duly certified) to save you
from each impending death.
And I (or we) succeeded:
By dawn, you were a young flower
blooming for the first time.
And just to be sure, in case there won’t be
a single bottle of San Miguel Beer
come the next mortal moment, yesterday
I spent all my savings for your memorial plan,
bought from Loyola Memorial Park, so you’ll be
buried someday among this country’s
showbiz celebrities, artists, heroes, etcetera.
(The only caveat: among the etcetera,
are probably crooks.)
What? You don’t want this post-mortem gift?
I’m wrong again?
You prefer the Libingan ng mga Bayani instead?!
(Well, I guess as far as sharing your final resting place
with heroes and a certified crook goes, you’re right.)
I Sent for the Clown, But…
You don’t invite me to your parties anymore.
I guess you’re sure I don’t deliver the goods, anyway.
I’m certain you remember and still reel from the failed promise
I made to hire a clown for your birthday years ago.
You never believed me when I told you that he was
on his way but suffered a flat tire, and had to back out
at the last minute. I was apologetic, for the clown and myself.
You didn’t believe that I really sent for one.
When I showed you the receipt for the down payment
from the party needs shop, you accused me
that I had it faked somewhere along Recto Avenue.
At least the other clown made it to your party:
the one who sent for the other one.