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          Late evening and Mabini looks strangely clean. 

The street lives in this pretty snapshot at the seeming

Climax of the monsoon: rain pouring in earnest,

Straight own in the orange beam of headlights,

In the pure business of wetting, in that eternal moment

Around the crescendo of the relentless torrent.

 

The rain seems to have beaten the street cleaners

To rinsing the grime off the asphalt and concrete.

Except the graffiti and crude posters stuck to walls

And posts announcing or claiming territory, giving out

Telephone numbers for cheap or painless circumcision, 

Sewage suction, and general relief of maladies.

 

Along the sidewalks, in the glare of fluorescent lights,

The place is, again, strangely empty. Everyone

Must have made their way home, conquering flash

Flood or traffic. Or the denizens and habitué are

Just out of sight, ensconced in their corners,

Contending with whisky glass or beer bottle,

 

Munching on idle talk, ceaseless transactions,

The problems of the world, tall tales 

Of philandering, and peanuts or chips,

Barbecue, dried squid, all the greasy victuals. 

Empty sidewalks, yes, except for one stray and 

Persistent hanger-on: She looks as if fresh

 

From the shower, or just drenched as she sought

Shelter. Languidly she combs her lush tresses

With her fingers. Intently she works her cellphone.

Has she hailed her taxi or is she waiting to be

Rescued for the night, invited out of the wet

And into the cozy provisions of a bar?
 

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