Nine years old, summer


Mornings start off slow, writing lists
Of Tamblot Street, Doctor dan, and that little bitch who used to throw tantrums.
My cousins hated me.

The radio starts to play Michael Learns to Rock
and there I go thinking about my pile of unread books.

But it’s the afternoon that was always the best,
commuting, riding jeepneys,
getting lost somewhere,
wishing it was that easy for my family to come visit.

Such were the quiet days in the summer.

It’s been a long time since I went to a writing workshop and wrote poetry. This was what I came up with after the final exercise. It’s not that much but maybe I can still improve it. Good thing I didn’t get called to read it out loud.


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