I am My Own Target Market

I am My Own Target Market

by Kamila More Cabisada
(January 8, 2018)

This cafe is like
Papemelroti in a cup
I am free to just breathe.
Just feel
Just be
I am reminded
I do not have to run
and run all the time
Wearing myself out
for things that are
running away too
Just as I am.

No slave to time
My quaint spot calls me
To sit, sip
quietly
My Papemelroti
in a cup

And think
and dream
of what it would
be like
To have sons
running to your tummy
To squeeze you good night
and daughters
reaching for your photograph
To hug you (sleep tight…)

The cafe started
as a kiosk, the woman said
I now dream of
kiosks and cafes
little stalls and hawkers
orange sellers and waiters
bustling about

And children running in the breeze
To mommies endlessly
Waiting.
Clock-free.
Love-bound.

I am my own target market.

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One Piece at a Time

One Piece at a Time

by Kamila More Cabisada

Sort through
Piles of discarded
Memories, leftover pain
Emptied canisters of
Bubbling laughter

Sort through
Years of tiny
Running feet in
Over-sized shoes
Grimy hands raiding
An overused ref
Makeup kits used
For watercolor art
Empty red checkbooks
Tied up with a band

Sort through
Heaps of music box dreams
Sheets, staves, notations
Audible cats
Scratching lines on the wall

Sort through tears
And dried laundry stains
And doomed coffee acid
Shards of broken glass

Sort through bits
And pieces here and there
Crawl through time
And get yourself back.

one piece at a time -zeke edit

Drones

Drones

Every five minutes they come
whirring like copters for war
slashing through immaculate peace
you crave to blanket your day with

Those speeding three-wheeled
gadflies
are kings of small streets and
act like you must pay them to

Extricate you from a cluster of
doomed and dusty eggs and bacon
deliver all that racket

in your head
every time you think
about buzzing
drones

on your meatloaf
in your heart
in your dreams
on your hopes
on your thoughts

about how marriage
should be
a man and a woman
now one soul in
two bodies
living together
committed
fighting for stable
“everydays”

The roses look damp
bouquets of mums
on the kitchen table
you pouring hot coffee;
the mug you took two
hours to pick out
is punctiliously stained.