Timog Twelve-thirty

Finally, heaving a sigh

of relief, I heave through the door

and promise not to speak English

anymore. I scan around

the crowd outside, milling,

talking in Timoguese gibberish,

haggling over roses, half-alive.

Fifty-peso beer does not

souse me enough, so I look

for Marlboro Lights, but all they have

are packs. No sticks. I start

walking down the avenue,

hands in back pockets, eyes closed

to cabs trying to get me to ride,

Club One Heart and Padi's Point

cross-dressers, and cross over

to where the Scouts are. I can't

read their names, but what a tragedy

it must have been, crashing

into the Aegean without ever having

tasted beer, or a woman,

or a 2007-vintage Marlboro.

Electric-post penumbras

point the way home. So I

cross again, mutter a putanginaka

at some mutt sniffing at my shoes,

and eye the girls in stilletoes, winking.

I look right and see a cab, coming out

of a side street. The shadows. I don't

see who's inside. My phone's in

my pocket -- a new girl's number,

my friends trying to get me back inside

the bar, a perfunctory good-night note --

but my thumb is frozen solid.

I need a smoke. All they have are packs.

No sticks. I get on a jeepney.

I start speaking in Tagalog. I've lost

my accent. I need to get home,

where the stuffed toy you gave me

is waiting, wagging his doggy tongue,

arms waiting to give me a big Barney hug,

where your letters are in a box

under my bed, all in English.

But for now, I hand over the last

coins in my pocket, telling the driver

where I will get off. He nods. The dogs

on the dashboard, nodding their heads,

do not hear, but they understand.

for I.