pickpocketing memories,
sipping beer at seven in the morning,
mirroring the uncles and aunties
who have collected these for
ages of time reduced to
a tepid rush,
gusts of wind hollering into
an abyss
slipping through these
quiet shuffles during dusk,
weaving through pillars
with red plastic bags full of
ingredients,
cutting through calamansi and
onions, a dash of Kikkoman
slathered on pork thighs
served with
a cradled phone connected to black earphones.
Soft kisses through and on the screen,
with family more than a few hours away.