Swatting flies flung into the rice
coffee indescribably brewed of urine tea
their croissants crumbs of glued flour
their margarine was more like cooking lard
and the eggs were centuries’ brined
I slowly munched on the flies floured in
lard and brined to let it stay fresh
masticating every limp morsel
transfixed in the meal
tasting their pennies
the coppered skins toasted my pigments
finally, letting all of it
hustled down in the dam
letting their gnarled palms touch me
rubbed me in Tondo.*
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