Child by Conchitina Cruz 

His fingers tap the car window 

Like rain, and I awake 
to sight of sampaguitas. 
Little ghost of a boy stares at me. 
His eyes seem contain 
all the life in him, leaving 
his body weightless as air. 
I roll down the car window 
and rush-hour traffic noise 
drowns the hum of airconditioning. 
"Ten pesos lang po," he pleads, 
holding the sampaguitas 
close enough for me to smell. 
I search my wallet for change. 
My father yells at the boy 
to get his arm and his flowers 
out of the window. I watch 
the little ghost disappear 
through the rush of cars. 
We are both left empty-handed, 
the child and I. 
I slip the bill into my wallet 
and turn to my father, 
who checks his speed 
then looks ahead. 
He orders me to roll up 
The car window, and I blend 
Like a ghost with the silence 
as the scent of sampaguitas fades. 
I close my eyes and hear 
the first drop of rain 
tap the window 
like his fingers.