Ten o' clock: a sea of people rushes
Past the gates, past the blue-uniformed
Security guards poking wands of wood,
Everyone—from Monumento to Ermita,
From Novaliches to Alabang—flocks
To this supermegahypermall, all
The happy-go-lucky students cutting
Their classes, the fresh grad bums scrounging
For jobs, all the baggy-eyed operators
From the call centers of Libis and Makati,
The bored housewives with their bawling babies
In strollers, all the matrons looking forward
To their weekly facials and gigolos,
All the maids in their day off, the multitude
Of jologs wearing garish "designer" outfits,
All the rich kids from Forbes garbed in grungy
Shabby chic, the gays in all permutations,
Oh, all the whores of the Lust Triangle,
The call boys from the Circle, all the nuns
Carrying electric-blue shopping bags
With rosaries 'round their wrists, the rare
Jetsetters from New York and Paris, the horde
Of promdis disgorged by dilapidated
Buses, here to make a pilgrimage
To this temple of merchandise, from opening
Till closing time, seven days a week, open
Even on holidays and Holy Days,
Cash and credit card accepted: all you lonely,
Lovely people from all walks of life. In this
Mall world, everyone in the crowd is alone.
