WE INTERSPERSE ourselves
to same scenes—
a dull ceiling to welcome the eyes,
bland breakfast to pass through
the stomach,
noxious odors—perfumes of the
streets, along with other subtleties
between broken traffic lights,
dirty street children
and rules of the city.
When night comes,
we tread the same
dangerous streets,
hear the same news,
ride the same trains,
feel the same hunger,
and sleep in the same
measly bed. Both tired, passive
to address the horror of being trapped
in working class limbo,
pawns to life
while our souls stagnantly
wait for saving grace.
Josef Brian M. Ramil
