Waiting for a Number

words appeared as the soft purring of a cat, crow screeching,  
end of a hymn, cicadas in trees—spilling in the white  
noise of my head—Da Nang Mekong Saigon Nam.

I walked suburban streets to school, hi-fi blasting Somebody To Love,  
coach meting out orders, my playbook of fakes and jives,  
my head swelling in the helmet. Over sweet cocktails with my beloved 

under the yellowing gingkoes of 64th off Lex, for a moment I felt  
grown up and then the air in my head was orange chemical Dow  
and DuPont, the juke box blasting Light My Fire—and where were we?

staring at the image: pistol to the head, a boy I once knew  
on the white-lined field was bagged 
and flown back in the dioxin haze of morning.

In the mangrove of my head chopping sounds  
under the covers, rice patties—floating mirrors with unidentified 
objects. There were Catholics in Saigon and Catholics on my street,  

what about Laos? what about Cambodia?  
American questions spilling in sunlight on white  
shutters, and I’m home on plush carpet waiting for a number.