by Anonymous

He taps the Wonder on the pack,
lights it—using his other hand to grab
a handkerchief. He swabs the sweat
from his forehead, but it returns just
as quick. The Corsair blows exhaust
into his face, another job done. No parades.
He wonders if he’ll see the pilot again,
as he stubs out his cigarette and begins, again.

She hunches over, her teeth black from chewing slàa,
and spits into the water. The stars and stripes scream overhead
and she wonders “is it now?”
Or now? But continues in her planting,
her oxen shivering behind.

Cambodia, 1972 (For Pop)