There was me,
the Vietnamese
and the rat.
The Vietnamese laughed
at the way I shaved,
at how I pulled my mouth
sideways and upwards
to tighten the skin.
He hung a single strand
14 inches long
from a mole on his check
that he stroked and admired
and held up to the lamp
so I could whistle at it.
But the warlord
of garbage and greed
mocked us both –
I shook when I saw him:
two feet high on hind legs,
strutting the spotlight
by the latrine.
He bullied the night
through a stiff moustache
and a braggart’s lip,
and a shriek that sobered me
where I stood.