image: Thong Vo

Moon-trail on a Saturday

2:20 AM

Saturday dawn

the moon isn’t bewitching

I walk across the conrete floor

of streets that know my roaming

Grass —blades of which sat in the vastness

indifferent

I ignore the painful creaking of

bone against bone

joints that sometimes appear

sometimes gone

deserting me in discomfort.

Cockroaches shone against

the light of posts

looking like seeds of a tamarind fruit

that glisten with saliva

after teeth tore its soft, brown flesh

And I stir away

from shops that are still awake

away from folks that held

smooth bottles of Red Horse, San Miguel

or Colt

away from cat-calling

and kinds of amusement for the liquor-stricken

bore.