The Bard of Argao
Candles sold, would you like to light for michael
and pray his might may strike your wish?
A wondrous homemade cake appears along
the dirt-wrought wheel
falling backwards
as flaglets play a food over a kid's gang waiting
for the lechon, pastillas, ube royale
from the town royalty's fast-paced feast
as people revel in their walks, as devouts
deviate from their patrons in exchange
of some sweet tobacco-rolled smoke
like my coiled pain-filled paper roll.
Candles bought, aye aye the slay of day;
I left my morning in Argao's silent sea.
Labels: Sylvia Plath
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