Ernesto P. Santiago Poet Lyric

Why I Dress

“Wow, you write poetry, like Robert Frost!” my friend said,
forcing my faint face turned into an over-ripe tomato.

“Oh, you must be kidding me!’ replied I.  Perhaps, you mean 
holding a pen, like him. What’s his name again?  Robert Frost?  
But I still not mastered the perceptible gloss of twisting it, 

‘tween my fingers.  I couldn’t even perfect hanging wet souls, 
nor did I have the ability to put them back on a closet of 

loneliness, where their shadows rest, temporarily. At 41, I still 
collect them and put to wash.  There’s no stopping now though, I 

once emptied a can of coke on myself by accident, as I picked 
salted sticks, ala McDonald’s, to satisfy my stomach.  My wife 

laughed, thinking that…you know what I mean? I may not be 
of Frost, but the un-bashing type of comment gave me strength 
to flaunt my thought on a narra table, buffet style, for 

who ever wants to taste my soul can do so. Ah, my heart’s young 
and willing-- to dress a naked word to make her splendiferous.

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