Little Things

Lawdenmarc Decamora

A couple of weeks back everyone

was chanting ¡Habemus Papam! in the garden,

on chimney tops, on the floor of the plaza smitten

by bird beaks, but not in the libraries of philandering

codeheads and newly circumcised trapeze swingers.

On that special day no one wanted to hear

something like a “freelance boner.” I’m sure you too

didn’t throw an ear for words like papal shit

or shitty Christology. You know, I’d like to brush

your hair when things go ugly, as in when a tsunami hits

the seawall and there’s no one to fix your hair out of fear.

I will celebrate your eye’s uncalculated wink as it might change

the season from tinder-parched mornings to being eighty-four

and still writing you poems. You know, I’d like

to see you cry, laugh at people off to work, because

you’re edged to clear the skies of jinx and throat-clogged

pretensions. The paddling mallards, oh, I want to count

them out for you and give you my monthly salary

lest I fail to do the maths. I want to carry your bag


when you leave home, check your stuff, and remind

you of the bills to pay soon after the afternoon

glows upon our shoulders. I want to see

you wear that big hair the next time you take a swim.

Last thing, please let’s do it in church. It’s not

what you think, no. I mean let’s do it, the laundry.