Bryan Thao Worra
Bryan Thao Worra Poems
|41.||Surprises In America||7/13/2012|
|42.||Golden Triangle, Holy Mountain||7/13/2012|
|45.||New Myths Of A Northern Land||7/13/2012|
|46.||Our Dinner With Cluster Bombs||7/13/2012|
|48.||E Pluribus Unum||7/13/2012|
|50.||A Crime In Xieng Khouang||7/29/2013|
A Crime In Xieng Khouang
Someone stole my boots from
A Phonsavan porch
Around dinner time
In the dark.
I suspect it was my tour guide-
The one who trained to be a diplomat,
Whose future drained away
With the American departure.
When I first bought them,
The box proclaimed they were
“Hard To Kill”
And by extension, I assume,
So was I, though there were no
written words to that effect.
Forty dollars is a good price
But it‟s nearly a year‟s pay
In these parts.
I should have known
New American boots
In an Asian size
Don‟t come by often ...
April begins as a joke in a house of children:
A surprise, a word, a laugh if we‟re lucky.
There are still bills and taxes and poems ahead, at least in America.
With a sabaidee we say hello to a new year,
La kawn to yesterday and the many mornings before.
The flowers begin to bloom, the rain and wind are welcome.
There are so many places to go these days,