godson, i was an hour

... too early for your baptism.
I shall tell you of the world-state at these times -
these times when you could easily fit into
the crook of your mother's arm.

It is the infancy of 2019. It is 3:37 PM.
Cebu traffic deteriorates, yet somehow
I overestimated it, here too early,
though without worries: church yards on weekdays
are premier parking spots. Near-empty,
uniquely peaceful, possessing that hanging
sense of divine security -
who would steal a few steps from God's front door?

If this was the 90s, 00s or even the early 10s,
I would have found an empty pew on which
I could sip into the solemnity as if it’s liquor.
I would have sincerely tried to make
sense of my soul, again,
I would have tried to fit my jagged faith
into that perfect Christian mold, again.
Justify my fate,
to adhere to the rigid parameters of religion...
I still would not have found answers, again,
still it would have been fine, at least
I would have assembled a poem or two in my head.
I would have freed them into paper sometime.

But it is an infant 2019. It is 3:39 PM.
I've long made peace with my jagged faith
and its cold relationship with religion, and
there's not much drive towards writing, these days.
Instead I entrusted my Ford to the church, to all
its divinity, I sank feet, alternating into a few
hundred footsteps towards a cafe.
In minutes, I had the day’s 3rd mug in hand,
coffee in mouth, bitter numbness in spirit.
Soon after I had exchanged a half dozen
messages with your father.
My muted phone was a harlequin, juggling, dancing
in binary, its games and entertainment laid out for me...
I scrolled down some in Facebook and Instagram.

All while encouraging time to crawl,
this child year, second after second
further inwards
today,
5PM.