Dust Trees of Manila
They planted trees but forgot their water.
Each leaf a wrinkled newspaper clipping
from a world I never subscribed to.
Noise here is curated.
A choir of car horns, a sermon of drills
but I hear the silence
between footsteps
and the echo
of one slippered child
crossing the pedestrian overpass
with rice in a plastic bag.
My eyes collect
forgotten wrappers,
graffiti prayers,
the melancholy
of sky cut by concrete.
They say you must harden in Manila.
But I cracked
gently,
like an eggshell left in heat.
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