The Column
The night was not for sleeping.
It was for the drag of headlights
against the skin of wet asphalt,
for the torn-down column
spitting its weight into the earth —
too heavy for a backhoe,
too stubborn for goodbye.
EMs Barrio curled in on itself,
a hive of borrowed beds
and half-finished dreams.
I sat outside its hum,
counting the breaks between engines,
each jeepney’s arrival a breath,
each departure an emptying.
The last one wore its driver like an afterthought —
shoulders pressed forward,
face carrying the rust of decades.
The radio died mid-verse,
as if ashamed of how thin it had grown.
I do not smoke.
But that night
I inhaled the exhaust of his leaving,
kept it in my lungs
long enough to taste
what it might be like
to disappear slowly
past a stranger’s gaze.
(Legazpi City, 1997)
Copyright © Kell Futoll | Year Posted 2025
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