bopis

I know how it will go. A row of resorts will pass, some road, mountain. Buko pie stands, then illegal funeral parlors, and more buko pie. Then come the boiled egg yellow facade of Olivarez. The bus will stop in front of this mall, a gas station where the jeeps that will take the curve lie in wait. UP COLLEGE, UP GATE. But before this mall, some small vending buildings before the station, the bus will pass by a vacant lot the size of a classroom. The viridian grass marks a time that I never experienced, nevertheless the time remains known to me: the greener days of Los Banos. This lot is the green shadow of rising cement. Off-center, I shall find a tree, short like a sidewalk tree, but lush, well-fed by a steady stream of foul waste. A sign on the tree, and I shall read it. Maybe it will announce glass-cutters. Or, like the other times, it will crudely advertise vulcanizing shops. Or maybe, as I read once or twice before, it will speak of keys and duplications. When I pass, this next time, this first time after week upon week of first times, shall I bother to read it? Or shall I sleep thirty seconds more, believe it gives NO VACANCY? There will be miles in my step down from the bus. Too little of this measure will belong to the coming gate.

Etiquetas: woman19