It was a hot Sunday afternoon on my way to the bus terminal
Wearing khaki shorts, white converse, and my favorite blue shirt
Walking under the scorching sun like some Quiapo criminal
Craving for ***** ice cream and buy one like the woman on red skirt
Tired, I arrived at the terminal and heard the conductor shout,
“Lucena, Lucena, Lucena,” so I ran and immediately went on
There were a couple chattering and beside them their kid, a scout
Vendors selling Chicharon and Espasol and then they were gone
I can see from my seat most of the bus’ eccentric passengers
One is a weary mother and her cherubic baby crying out loud
A busy businessman on a call, and another is a group of fashioners
But I thought these were all temporary, a transient crowd
So, I stared beyond the vast plains and the nature in disguise
None was ever permanent in this episode, my deep introspection
But one thing I know is certain as sure as the sun will rise
That is slowly I am nearing home, I’m sure of my destination
My journey en route home