#8/30 "What do you say?"

We could be sun-drenched emperors

eating the month on fine china

in certain swank hotels,

where the waitresses make

more than professors

for their deference

and shiny, white teeth.

Shall we exile ourselves?

#7/30 "Welcome to Cebu"

In the morning, the city is dirty-beautiful,

bright paint burned tired turquoise and pale pink.

This vintage palette complements

the hello-waving verdant palm leaf fans.

Other tropical foliage crawls

an insistent claim to the land

over buildings of weepy concrete.

The streets are crowded with knock-kneed kids

and shirtless, shiftless men. The men hawk

sunglasses and towels for pennies to the stalled traffic,

or load heavy knots of star apples

onto the backs of motorbikes. Jeepneys bursting

through their glassless windows with humanity

weave naked and neon through the gaps.

Everyone sweats in their shacks

cobbled of corrugated tin and beer billboards.

A woman lifts her hair in a breeze,

smiling at the baby on her hip.

I am here, adding

whatever I am

to this ripe beginning.