The Mekong River, an evergreen
coconut land.

A tasteful me of Vietnam.

Sleepy river towns pass by.
Uprooted trees, uprooted country
swept downstream by hopes
of a better life.

Bamboo fish traps rest on the bank.
Naked children play in the muddy water.
Wet hair and wooden paddles in their hands,
chasing the fish that escape.

The hired longboat pilot smoked
his last cigarette, and pointed
to the rooftops of the buildings.
Each dotted with red satellite dishes,
sitting side by side with the dark spiders
and crocodile lizards.

The slender wooden beams of the stilt houses,
that fill the dreams of the poor and the
tourists pass by.
Skinny and dark as mosquitoes that turn
the southern sky green.
A county built on stilt legs
and fireflies that come and go.

And a river once full of sadness
and companions lost in love.
Now cries a different life.
A life of flesh and security of bone.
Of a Dollar and a soul adjourned
for a future time.
And “Vietnam” is their only reply.