Peter Lewis Holmes Poet Free verse

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.

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