Sunday, 3 November 2019

6. Poem 2: Pan De Sal

I miss your breathing–awakens
me and my senses.
No need for artificial snoozing
when we are close to smooching.

While our only sprout extends
another round of catnaps:
eggs, garlic and rice goes frying–
I am your servant, my darling.

But there's one dough–
it perks up your mornings, I know.
Fluffy and soft baked lumps
scoured from the remotest boroughs.

Bagel, baguette, croissants?
Nah, twenty pesos of heavenly delights–
no wonder you're blooming.
I miss you, tabachinghing.

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