Forty years gone, Tommy, so many rains ago
the hulks of abandoned choppers turn red in the heat,
and I have come to take your spirit back with me
The young Vietnamese smile and gawk at my gray hair,
swarm into Uncle Ho’s city on motorbikes
through puddles of stench
for their ration of Socialist hope
The Hotel Rex, where the war was lost,
gleams cool in marble and granite
At guest information,
a middle aged communist,
hair twisted into tight bun,
asks what I did in the war
and grins
Out of spite, I want to remind her
of the final score,
three million to fifty-eight thousand,
but hold my fire:
I’ve seen the graveyards of Viet Cong martyrs,
the heroines of the Women’s Union
waving red flags with yellow stars
Gondolas lift American tourists up Nui Ba Den
where you lost your face to an RPG
Before we can tour the famous VC tunnels at Cu Chi,
Charlie requires us to watch a 16mm film
of a lone VC scattering Marines with an AK-47,
78 of them, they boast, in less than forty minutes
In stalls along the road,
the inevitable dog and monkey
nip at each other, still at odds,
their masters leering at us from plastic chairs
Nothing left here to fear or mourn
Time, finally, Tommy,
for us to come home