after the hours of supper,
the heavy night tight
with the silence of human
bodies packed like sardines
in the can of a jeepney.

stopping somewhere in Bularan
a man and his little boy, or grandchild
asked forgiveness from the passengers
as if it was a sin to share the ride.

the passengers began to move;
squirming as if earthworms
crawling, or crawled on their skin,
even the pretty lady in front of me
suddenly shrivelled into ugly.

i could not know or sense it then:
from the kitchen furnace of the sun,
the aroma of salt and sweat
sautéed and stewed in their bodies,
the recipe of their daily fish
until it snaked itself into my nose
i confess i nearly choked.

and at that moment
i am reminded, like a fool
with a smile on my face,
grateful for the price they paid
so i may savour my favourite
feast of dried fish.