Pick Up

At a party where I've only just met you,
your conversation gambit has the words
maid and Hong Kong
or maid and Saudi Arabia. At the mail
room where I'm making copies, you stop
and ask me how my people are doing;
and how awful it must be for them
in the aftermath of the latest natural
calamity. Looking through the grocery's 
refrigerated section for eggs, I hear 
you say something-something-maganda. 
I don't even turn my head. I walk 
toward the dairy and yogurt section, 
even if I don't need anything from there. 
On second thought, something icy. Dark, cold,
bittersweet. No glass noodles, no egg rolls.