We were wandering through Vietnam,
somewhere in the hills.
We found a place to eat, sat down
and, served green tea, we drank
and wondered what they’d bring
from the laminated menu, splashed with bright blurred
We queried one and had, again, that mimed mis-conversation.
She pointed to a tank.
Along a dark diagonal,
an upward branch, and sloping
on the branch, a Pangolin.
It wore a suit of cards,
fanned as for a trick,
a pin-eyed puppy, pale, alone.
It looked like it was hoping.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Joe Crocker
would be pleased to hear