Sketches Of Life Poem by RIC BASTASA

early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,

harbingers of
a new day

up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,

she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing

the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut

one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken

early mornings when
the hens are silent

when the ref murmur
a nameless song

when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child


one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use

at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling

a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows

there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself

it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave

i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.