Two Poems: Places / What Are The Chances

by Glenn Diaz

Places

1

In-between shelves (Heidegger and Hegel in the library; anti-dandruff shampoos in 7-11; jazz albums in Odyssey, SM North), it can begin with a slight nod, a furtive curling of lips, even an accidental brushing of fingers.

2

To nourish it, perhaps a cup of soy latte every Tuesday after work, or a walk, every now and then, down some scenic tree-lined street (Ayala, from Buendia to 6750; Roxas, shadows lengthening; UP Diliman) to talk about the future.

3

And when we come to terms with the brevity of things (as always), there is no place to contain the smallness. But maybe in some faintly-lit bar (perfumed, in Greenbelt; sleazy, in Aurora Boulevard; maybe out of town), to begin again

4

with a slight nod, a furtive curling of lips, an accidental brushing of fingers.

What Are The Chances

For him, the possibility
                of love is a bus exploding
                                in the middle of EDSA. 

                                That is: it is possible.
                                                That is: there is an off-chance it might happen
                                                                to you
                on your innocent Tuesday commute. 

                Two years ago his last chance was blown
                                to smithereens, with few beers and fewer

tears. For him, the possibility of another
                is like his last lover’s frame. 

                                That is: slim to none.
                                                That is: slender. 

As likely as the culprit
                getting caught. 

                                That is: if you’re lucky, perhaps.
                                                That is: don’t count on it 

                unless you’re ready
                                for routine disappointment,
                                                unless you’re expecting reprieve.