The sidewalk cracks near Katipunan yawn—
swallow light, spit out myths.
I pluck two silver ghosts from the concrete's throat
heads of heroes, tails of a nation's debt.

They nest in my palm as sorbetero's bell
still ringing in the Zen Garden.
One peso—a taho's sweetness lost to inflation.
Two—a jeepney ride to nowhere, but fare ticks like a bomb.

I think of the written works due tomorrow,
how my laptop hums with borrowed Wi-Fi
at the cafe where baristas know my block section.
These coins? A joke from the universe:
"Here's your change for dreaming."

Tonight, they'll clink in the dark,
counting seconds between my classes,
while the A-Space fluorescents flicker
like a saint's last miracle.

In the gates gleam, polished as a dean's lie:
"Excellence for others."
But these pesos—dirt-cheap, stubborn—
are the only honors that fit my jeans.

The school award poems that bleed
geography but speak in scars.
This one whispers Katipunan, Ateneo, and
student hustles—
a prayer for every scholar who's ever
counted coins
to split a siomai with guards who calls them "Ma'am."