Where Rice Grows
In Irish Sounding Fields
And American Bullets
Lie Rusted In Jungles,
I Journeyed For Knowledge,
Looking In Awe
At This Foreign Splendour;
Though
So Very Different
And Funny Strange.
My Exploration
Had Dried My Tongue.
A Small Noisy Bar
At The Bamboo Edge
Of The Heaving Town,
Drew Me In With Dreams
Of Ice The Unknown.
Then She Sidled Up,
Red Silk Saronged;
Split To The Hip.
Her Hair Blue-Black.
Features Exact, The Like
I’d Never Seen Before.
The Scent Of Sweet
Fresh Blossom
Hit My Senses.
Her Voice, The Opposite
Of Harsh, Whispered
Through Perfect Teeth.
I Watched The Movement
Of Her Lips, As He Offered
An Hour Of Her Life;
Like Any Respectful
Mother’s Son.