She flew in from Paris
somewhat slim & continental –
Yes, she had dumped her lover
who played with her heart.
& laughing, she would tell about the old man
who played the piano in the middle of the street
& another who danced to the tune,
all the while Paris was raging
with the passion of Algerians, as though reliving
in her mind the Battle of Mendiola
minus the body count & burning cars.
Yes nothing seems to have changed:
“You can’t get rid of us,”
she says, beaming as she boards
Jane’s Honda for the Podium.
Yes, she often finds herself
virtually expecting what the coverage could be:
Politicians repeating themselves,
the event duplicating all its familiar banality.
How she wished she could hold up a bank
& run away with the moolah
for some southern island
where time stops
but real life goes on placidly.