WAITING FOR THE POEM
By Cynthia Buiza

It is late again
I know because I am counting my breath
I am still twelve years old
and the rain from my window is bigger than my thumb.

There is so much to forgive but life keeps missing its beat
like the train to Legazpi that never leaves.

Oh, Felisa, what time is it?
can’t you see the clock on the street?
it does not wait for me.

It keeps moving within its absence
like the devil lurking where it lurks
in poems that do not arrive.

© Cynthia Buiza

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