The Ambient Orchestra of Suburbia

Her son waved goodbye,
and she waved back,
her gaze following
the school bus as it
disappeared down
the street.
Slowly the sound of its sputtering
engine faded out
as it turned the corner.

Then she heard

but only for
a second,

for the sound
of hammer
on nail
on wood
quickly faded in.
And she saw
a carpenter
on her neighbor's roof,
singing some
long-forgotten construction song
as he pounded away on an
invisible insect
resting atop the nailhead.
All this yammering and hammering
upset the neighbor's dog,
its barks seemingly syncopated
to the sound of the pounding.
A few seconds later
she heard the cries of
And sure enough,
Manong Joey appeared,
(who, save for his gray hairs,
looked exactly like he did
two decades ago),
bearing on his shoulders
the visually-imbalanced
silver scales of justice.
His bellows and his breathing
were synced, and he showed
no sign of slowing his stride,
knowing that people
on this street
rarely bought from him
on a schoolday.

As she listened to the
symphony of suburbia, she smiled
to herself, remembering the time
exactly twenty years ago
when she had to miss school
because she was sick.
She had stood in her pajamas
and waved goodbye as her
brothers boarded the bus,
and then she had heard
the same sounds,
the exact elements
of sputter,
and "Taho!",
only in a different arrangement,
and in a slightly slower time signature.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

My Literary Side

"The Words come from the Divine; from the Muse the Idea. The Poet merely transcribes." ┼Old Sumerian proverb

(Kidding, I made that up. LOL)