Futile Morbidity
I imagine my funeral to have
a punch bowl of regrets and scarcity of people

the place would be drab, not much different than my own life
my mother would burst into tears every second or so and
my sister would be handing out tissues that would end up unused
I hope the DJ they hire plays the music from my Recently Played Playlist
and I hope my corpse looks sickly and decaying enough
to scare off those who wished they were me

part of me prays that the place offers free Wi-Fi
so the few who attend can tweet their condolences and sad faces

although, the one thing that I sincerely hope for
is that the words said about me
are worth more than the dirt I will be buried under
the leaves would fall like they always do
and the stray cat will continue living under my car
life goes on and the planet I used to live on won’t so much as stop for a millisecond;
nothing will have changed except for the fact that I am no longer alive

Trainspotting
Trapped between the window and my sister
I struggle for inspiration—

Countless languages
rolling down foreign mouths;
it’s the city train,
what do you expect?

The whistle blows, the bottom stirs
My view begins to change
The platform gives way to grassland
I wish I could smell
the fresh, renewing air—
not the stench of humanity

We catch up to another train;
It’s on my left and I can almost touch
(Two trains, somewhat racing against each other)
It carries people like myself—
I wonder if they’re writing about me

The train is slowing down
(Is this my stop?)
The doors slide open,
people file out

Alas,
the sojourn has adjourned.

—————-
Patricia P. hails from the Philippines. Her work has been published in Insert Lit Mag Here, The Wait Poetry Anthology and several online magazines. You can contact her and find more of her work at pennilesspoet.tumblr.com