Smoke fills the early evening.
A field ripples with flames.
The sun sinks over the treeline
while children shriek and play games.
Fires consume the field
while I’m consumed with worries
for my wife and, of course,
the beansprout that she carries.
Viets have many talents,
but singing’s not one of their gifts,
as they mutilate the tune
yet warble heartfelt riffs
into mics and amplifiers.
Ignoring the world’s faults,
just out of fire’s reach,
an old couple dances a waltz
beneath new-planted trees
whose leaf tips char and singe.
This field was once a jungle
Yanks sprayed with Agent Orange.
Now smoke from its brown grasses
merges with Saigon smog,
the shoe factory fumes,
grilled okra, fish, and dog.
We park our bikes in the sand,
where the fire’s less smoky and smelly.
I take my wife by the hand,
kiss it and her pregnant belly
as we scrunch at a tiny table.
We sip hand-pressed cane juice
poured over chunks of ice
and watch the smoldering hues.
The western clouds are tinder
the field and sunset ignite.
The old pair has danced and gone
into their own good night.
