In Tibiao, My childhood’s home I remember riding on a karosa, a cart Being pulled by my grandfather’s carabao While watching the setting sun As we go home After his day’s work, I, accompanying him.
Tonight, Seeing vehicles Plying EDSA, lugging tons of passengers, With their back lights, neon red, glaring I think of hundreds and hundreds of bull frogs Being pulled on their hind legs With their smoldering eyes Looking at me. The night Is my grandfather Walking me home.