A Crime In Xieng Khouang Poem by Bryan Thao Worra

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 near
The Plain of Jars.

He stole them from me,
And is now slogging through
The sucking muddy waste
Cluttered with tiny rusting bombies
My America dropped decades ago
For the good of Lao democracy.

His English is exceptional,
But he knows he is going to die here
With his dreams

While I return home easily
To get a replacement.

I have to forgive him,
Feeling like a thief
Looking for shiny new boots
Just past the American flags in the aisle.