Tu Do Street

Music divides the evening.
I close my eyes & can see men drawing lines in the dust.
America pushes through the membrane of mist & smoke, & I'm a small boy again in Bogalusa.
White Only signs & Hank Snow.
But tonight I walk into a place where bar girls fade like tropical birds.
When I order a beer, the mama-san behind the counter acts as if she can't understand, while her eyes skirt each white face, as Hank Williams calls from the psychedelic jukebox.
We have played Judas where only machine-gun fire brings us together.
Down the street black GIs hold to their turf also.
An off-limits sign pulls me deeper into alleys, as I look for a softness behind these voices wounded by their beauty & war.
Back in the bush at Dak To & Khe Sanh, we fought the brothers of these women we now run to hold in our arms.
There's more than a nation inside us, as black & white soldiers touch the same lovers minutes apart, tasting each other's breath, without knowing these rooms run into each other like tunnels leading to the underworld.