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.
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment