Three Hundred Thirty Two Steps

by Justine Tajonera


I would never have known this information in the past,
not without a pedometer. But just today, my steps
were measured, my cellphone keeping pace and time.
Those were the number of steps, there were calories
burned, distances covered in fractions of a kilometer.
It is a new frame for the pink hair clips that went into
the paper bag. It is the canvas of that stroll from building
to building, under a canopy of cloudy skies.
Three hundred and thirty two steps could mean
anything in a data-driven world where proof and
patterns and predictions are currencies on their own.
But I put it aside as I breathe in and out.
I have something for you when I come home.
The macapuno tart, the one left out of three pieces,
is side by side with my little gift. I imagine the sculpted pink
ribbon on your fine brown hair. There are more steps
left for the day, more goals, more items to tick off.
And then there is you. There is the changing scent
of your breath and the heady way I feel when
you shout with delight at my arrival. Distances
are shortened with your smile, with the mystery
of a brown paper bag that you will take
from my hands.

Below is an edited version (2013-07-25). I thank a fellow poet, Rose, for helping me with this. Much improved. :-)

Three Hundred Thirty Two Steps

Those were the number of steps, there were calories
burned, distances covered in fractions of a kilometer.
It is a new frame for the pink hair clips that went into
the paper bag. It is the canvas of that stroll from building
to building, under a canopy of cloudy skies.
Three hundred and thirty two steps could mean
anything in a data-driven world where proof and
patterns and predictions are currencies on their own.
But I put it aside as I breathe in and out.
I have something for you when I come home.
The macapuno tart, the one left out of three pieces,
is side by side with my little gift. I imagine the sculpted pink
ribbon on your fine brown hair. There are more steps
left for the day, more goals, more items to tick off.
There is the changing scent of your breath
and the heady way I feel
when you shout with delight
at my arrival.
Distances
are shortened with the mystery
of a brown paper bag that you will take
from my hands.