Poor Man’s Suit
My ears are deluged with your plans
by A. G. Bawang
of seeing western towers
one steel and one leaning,
of walking the streets of that sleepless city,
of snow and of canyons,
of nudist beaches and of flying.
You would soon buy that brick house
once owned by a Belgian priest
blessed with a panaroma
of that ancient Cathay sea.
You wanted that SUV
that runs a day
on a thousand;
the flat screen, the core duo, and the N93.
All these you say like a mantra-daily
in between your snack, lunch,
and cigarette breaks;
and when you just watch me
draft and type the bosing’s reports
or while you are busy
with breaking the pinball high score
on your game machine cum processor.
You say one day you’ll leave this place
and that dreams never die.
But only with that thing about dreams.