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.