Poetry
Unleashed

In the Philippines,
even my dreams
need exact change.

“Work hard,” they say.
So I did, I still do.
My alarm and I meet at five every morning.
At this point,
we should be celebrating our 10th anniversary.

Though, to be fair, it has never bought me flowers.

I pay for the ride.
The water.
The light.
The internet.
The food.

And somehow,
before payday has even learned my name,
my salary is already saying goodbye.

I wish I could travel
as often as my money does.

“Start a side hustle,” someone says.

Of course.

Apparently,
my job also needs a job.

Maybe the two of them
can split the rent.

And when I finally come home...

my mother switches off the kitchen light
as if darkness
could lower the electric bill.

She looks at what is left
beside the rice.
Counts quietly.
One bill.
Two coins.
Tomorrow’s fare.

I leave some money on the table.
She pushes it back.
“You’ll need this tomorrow.”

And suddenly,
I understand why people call us resilient.

Because somehow
we have learned to stretch everything—
rice,
salary,
patience,
hope.

We stretch them
until they almost disappear
and still call what remains
“enough.”

But sometimes,
I am tired of being called resilient.

I am sick of hearing another lesson
in surviving.

I want my mother
to leave the kitchen light on
until we finish eating.

I want to leave money on the table
and not wonder
which need she will postpone
because of me

No calculations.
No quiet sacrifice
hidden beneath the words
“I’m okay.”

No dividing tomorrow
into portions small enough
to survive today.

The bus driver can ask
for exact change.

The electric company
can tell me exactly what I owe.

The landlord can count every peso that I pay

But why must we measure our lives
the same way?

How many meals
until payday?
How many hours
of overtime
before one quick holiday
stops feeling irresponsible?
How many dreams
can we afford
after rent?

I imagine a day
when enough
finally means enough.

Enough for the driver
still working long after sunset.
bringing everyone home
before he can go home himself.
Enough for the cashier
counting her own coins
after spending all day
counting everyone else’s.
Enough for the nurse
finishing another night shift,
caring for strangers
while wondering who is looking after
the people waiting for her at home.
Enough for the overseas worker
who sends half the paycheck home
and learns to call
whatever is left
a budget.
Enough for the mother
who says she is already full
because there is only
one piece of chicken left.
Enough for the eldest daughter
who keeps wearing the same shoes
because someone else
needs new ones first.

Enough for that person
who is always asked,
“Can you help?”

and has somehow forgotten
what it feels like
to be the one who can say,
“I need help”

Enough for all of us
who have become so good
at making little things stretch
that people mistake survival
for having enough.

So I dream.
I dream for a day when coming home tired
means only this:
“the work is finished.”

Not,
I’ll continue this at home.
Not,
there is another bill waiting.
Not.
who can we borrow from this time?

And maybe
that is the dream.

Not mansions.
Not millions.
Not waking up rich.

Just waking up
without being afraid
of how much being alive
will cost today.

So when my mother asks me,
“Do you have enough for tomorrow?”
I want to say,
“Yes.”
And mean it.

I want to leave the money
on the table.
Leave the kitchen light on.
Sit beside her.
Take another spoonful of rice
without wondering
if I should save some for tomorrow.

Then ask,
“Ma, do you want some more?”
And hear her say,
“Yes.”
Not because she finally decided
to take the last piece.
Not because she is pretending
to be full.
But because, for once,
there is enough.
Enough food.
Enough light.
Enough for tomorrow.

Enough
that neither of us
has to count ever again.