Record Me Under T

Squeeze my hand
And if you’re lucky
You’ll only be soiled
With white dust

If you’re not
I apologize for the inkblot

My feet are crowded foyers
And shoddy up and down stairs

From my shoulders hang layers
Of bag handles

Folders and books
Form my elbows

My back rests
On foamless Orocan

My eyes have stacked papers
The size of three forest acres

My cluttered head naps
On questions I asked terms ago
Still smelling fresh
From the xerox kubo


My startled right fingers
Are last minute pages
While the left ones are chalk.

My body is lumber
While pushing and shoving
Towards Rm.6007



My mouth is greeting
But my words are not seeds
They are bubbles when I begin
Talking about plots and themes
They float and dropp and pop
On faces more vacant than blank

My queries get retorts
That go no further
Than “actually sir”
Coupled with head scratches
And the wryest of smiles

My rewards have become these
Though my throat is wrenched
At day’s end.

by A. G. Bawang

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