The Boys of Indochina

It is a picture Goya might
Have lit across a canvas
Between the vollies of war,
Discretely ducking his head:

The boys of Indochina rowing
To their fathers' funerals
In styrofoam bomb crates which
Separate neatly into hollow cradles
Once their hard
hard kernels have been removed.

Nonchalantly they paddle
Through the paddies of toothless
Uncles who cannot help but smile
Somewhere at all the queer vessels
Sailing these days through
The clutter of their customs.

Styrofoam bomb crates float
Like rectangular clouds across
The inverted sky that
Collects in the craters.