Child

The child stood there,

on his thick feet,

his constipated face reflected on the cold glass,

crushing Rizal’s face with his clenched fist,

debating:

“To Moo or not to Moo,

that is the question.”

The child thinks not the answer just the Moo.

And, just what his puny palm could hold.

A tin can and

a quarter of a kilo bag—

no space for anything else.

Just this: a stolen glance

and that cold glass—

(5 black prints dirtying the display).

Then he walks away,

dragging his thick feet

and his puny world

saddled on his shoulders.