I walk through San Roque under the grace 
of evening lights,
the street a long yard of laundry lines. 
Jeepney running boards
a makeshift bench for smoking teens. 

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Children splash shouts from inflatable pools, 
the main road keeps
a warm procession of stay-a-whiles.
Lovers slip in and out 
of houses, lingering in doorways. 

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A table of men gamble their pocket money 
and watch the sun go down.
This is no tourist coastline, there are no 
recommended retail prices, 
no guidebooks with kitsch illustrations.

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There is nothing to buy but everything 
to breathe. 
When they smile, it is enough to laugh 
in return and show them 
the camera’s screen, a well-framed dream.