Memory

It’s Tet, the Vietnamese new year, and people buy small Japanese-looking shrubs, which the vendors tow on wooden trailers, behind their Hondas, and Yamahas And the rush of the travelling wind, blows petals onto the street; pink, and white, depending on the tree and the petals, remind me of counter-measures, thrown from a fleeing jet; so from my bicycle, I open up with my Brownings, rat-a-tat-tat-tat, and the other pilot banks and sways, so I make a downward pass, and open up a long six-second burst; and the petals jump; and the petals swirl; and the petals curse; and a flame hits my eye; “I’m hit, I’m hit, I’m hit!” I shout, a boxer on the ropes, then pull, and twist, ejection gear… and WHOOSH! up in to the blue, blue stratosphere: and amid the pink, white, petals, all scattered by my side, I park my “jet” black bicycle, shaken by the ride.