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.
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2008
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