Tantalus in Saigon

He dips a tea bag.  Stale
bits and lukewarm coffee
Drops moisten the stiff
hard drill knots holding
a flaked orange beard
together.

The gas station bleeds red
Neon through all over the
small table: Cracked hands,
bleached in nicotine and white
pauses of callous no longer

Find the styrofoam's bottom.
A child barely four months
In her future
Cries for a broken lollipop.

Recalling a man's face,
or a boy, 18, laying down
His AK-47
To hold her
In his past

A sound like gravity's
Jealous lover, a few
Crackling heat-strokes,
Apple of cheek stripped
To pulsing bone.

Tables crash, snap and
overturn.  He screams at
the child, the crazy bum!