Dec 2013
The trot of kalesas,
Temple shack stores and
Hastily scrawled calligraphy—
Fruit cartons
And rice sacks
That litter
The clay streets
Itching to emerge from
Asphalt skin—
Browbeaten Angkongs shivering
In the December chill,
Decked in hawaiian shirts
And worn sandals—
Dirt-tinged air
Which goes down my throat
About as smooth as grandpa's beer—
Bitter but clean,
Swelling my chest with pride—
It tastes like home.
Temple shack stores and
Hastily scrawled calligraphy—
Fruit cartons
And rice sacks
That litter
The clay streets
Itching to emerge from
Asphalt skin—
Browbeaten Angkongs shivering
In the December chill,
Decked in hawaiian shirts
And worn sandals—
Dirt-tinged air
Which goes down my throat
About as smooth as grandpa's beer—
Bitter but clean,
Swelling my chest with pride—
It tastes like home.
I've been meaning to write about Sto. Cristo for a while. It's where I grew up, see. It isn't perfect, but home has always been one of those places that's hardest to really capture. It's the farthest I've gone so far.
