Esplanade

All these beautiful people
haven’t got here yet.

They do not see the water
that is slowly passing by

nor hear the great music
of their footsteps on the boardwalk.

Their thoughts are in a conference room,
listening to a colleague

drink tea out of a tumbler,
or in the park

where they sat on a bench
haunted by a late-night call.

Even now, as they hold each other’s
hands underneath the lights,

they are contemplating postgrads
and emergency funds,

provisions for a long journey
before the unstoppable river

brings them to a sunny porch
where they would think about today

and be here at last.

* 

Elephant Lighter

When my daughter was tall enough
to reach the shelf, she handed it to me
to ask me what it was.

For what must have been years,
I thought of you. That evening
we found each other in the fire escape
hiding from our twenties.

You worked in the office next to mine
selling shoe polish over the phone
when what you really wanted to do

was sing. When I asked you for a light,
you told me I could keep it. You said
you were trying to quit. Of course,
I didn’t tell my daughter any of this.

You lived in a time where I was young
which in her head isn’t a real place.
But she grinned just the same,

as I had a lifetime ago,
when I pulled on the trunk
and a little flame came out
where you’d last think possible.

* 

Subway Construction

This morning, I saw the workers
laying down the scaffolding,
and as if lights have switched on
in the long hallway of my life,
I began to see doors
that I didn’t know were there.
I thought of Tinder matches
that were too far away.
All those jobs I rejected
because I could not afford to move.
Brunches with friends
I haven’t seen since college,
the gin glistening on the piano
of a jazz club I’ve never been to.
The museums and urban gardens.
In seven years, I will make my way
to you. Here’s to believing
that nothing else will change.

*

Ginel Ople is a writer from Cavite, Philippines. His work has also appeared in Third Wednesday and Rattle.