He can’t understand.
He must be getting old.
Or he has become so staid
that his heart didn’t skip a beat.
It must be the New Year
when all things old are dusted off
as new –
as if you can start from
the beginning.
Yet he was incomprehensively cool
when she boarded the taxi
while he bade her goodbye
Is it the season
when leave-takings are in vogue?
Yet he remembers well
how long has he envisioned it –
as if it were true
according to reason
Yes, yes, he is inwardly
& silently joyful –
& whatever it means is beyond
even in this blitz of poetry.

But the New Year
brings forth old presentiments –
that you can change your life altogether?
Is it him talking
as if he were Christian
who believes rogues can attain salvation
at the very moment of repentance,
like sipping instant tea in a cup
& drinking it while hot?
This is silly:
but life represents itself as an old
& he can only predict
what the hell will next come.
It’s no bummer:
he knows things get around.
Yet he is quaintly surprise
as if he didn’t figure
the scenario at all.

So he waits
for the outcome against all sagely wisdom:
he’s fidgety like an adolescent
who foresees a positive future
as if that is really possible,
unlike his texts stuck
like a boat in a strand:
Could it be real
to tread on a new tack?
He’s blind to all impediments
of practical reason:
as if he is entitled to savor
an imagination
that covers all morbid destination.
It is a New Year,
he feels ruling out any disastrous

She’s going back to Jakarta.
MB will be sleepless in Manila.
O How life happens
In a world without borders –
In a sea of words, one turns speechless.

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