The fire

A burning broom

sweeps through the pines

and douglas firs

the meadows

and the shacks,

the rusting Chevy pickup

up on cinder blocks

since the summer of '69.

Boils the beavers

in their ponds,

roasts the squirrels

racing through the crowns

of ponderosa pines

dry as last year's

Christmas trees in March

flaming like a torch.

Incinerates the pair

of rocking chairs

that hold a thousand memories

of sunset views

and berry pie-smeared nephews

running barefoot on the porch

while the crickets commenced

to sing their evening chorus.

That straw-haired kid

who put that Chevy up

on the cinder blocks,

promised that he'd be back

to fix it up as soon as

he finished his tour.

He never made it back

any closer than Seattle

and the odd holiday or birthday

for a few hours that passed too fast.

She sits on one of those green

scallop-shaped metal lawn chairs

in the safety of the valley

with a box of photographs resting on her lap

watching the infernal tongues devour

what she'd assumed somehow was eternal.

Legacy

Do the ghosts that lurk beneath

the herringbone brick sidewalks

while most of Vientiane sleeps

drift up from the mossy gaps

and linger in the sweet night scent

of plumeria trees?

The crewcut spooks

who knocked back brews

in the bistros, bars, and discos,

between their bouts of listening

to scratchy radio transmissions

from the dark and humid forests.

They left the gift of unexploded cluster bombs

sown by fleets of B-52s from 30,000 feet,

sipped champagne while death

rained on the Plain of Jars:

seeds that continue to germinate and harvest

the arms and legs of the grandchildren

of the Secret War never mentioned

by our vaunted statesmen.

Now a hooker sits sidesaddle

on a silent scooter parked

outside a darkened temple

waiting for a midnight customer.

The war ghosts look down at her

from the branches of the temple trees,

the leaves remember the Mekong breeze.

She wears perfume scented with plumeria

and sends a slim stack of many-zeroed currency

each month to her one-legged grandmother.