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A Day in Seven Years

A day in seven years
when the skies darkened,
a boy spoke of truth:
Daddy, why are you sittin'
at the window all day,
your fingers 
in fish sauce
dipping raw mangoes?

You sat undanunted
in your reveries,
watching typhoon signal number two
sweep half our life away;
your fingers
stained with fish sauce,
druming termites on the windowsill,
your baccalaureate
like paperbotas
sinking in the flood.

Mommy manicured
a thousand nails already
but not a speck of dust
on your baby hands, daddy.
Your T-square, compasses and designs
sat dormant on your table
and yer blueprinted praises
on the faces of your kins.

Had they only known
that my mouth drooled
when I saw my playmates
with 50 cents Magnolia ice cream
meltinbg on their very tight grips.
While they looked at me,
their tongues
licked
their privileges.

Daddy, why are you sittin'
at the window all day?
Do you think of me
while I turn shoeboxes
and popsicle sticks
into dream little houses
without rats
without roaches
without you?

Bino Almonte-Realuyo







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© 1991 Asian American Writers' Workshop