Showing posts from August, 2021

A Poem From Another War That Ended Badly For Us...

I wrote this poem after eating lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant, and thinking about what it all meant. The lunch. The war. America. Substitute Kabul for Saigon and change a few ingredients, and you have a poem in the making (hold onto it for a decade or so, then send it out for publication). Lunch Hour at  Pho   Saigon     A pair of chromed figures, winged and bearded, The size of mastiffs--but rather small for dragons-- Crouch beside the doors to this converted  Filling station, extending their exotic, And misapprehended brand of luck  And protection to the mid-day diners at  Pho  Saigon.   Saigon! As if the name itself is gesture enough  To will the customers into blissful defiance of the past.    Lunch is politics by other means.   To the man on a tight schedule, propped against the counter  While taking phone calls between the mouthfuls  Of the translucent noodles, his noon meal has no agenda  Beyond efficiency: it’s cheap and it’s quick.    He breathes in this air, rich with the s