WOMAN IN AO DAI ON A SAIGON STREET
Stood on a sidewalk, a real sidewalk,
concrete and everything, squared-off
on the edge, a real paved street
one step away.
And She walked by.
No. No. Beauty such as hers
does not walk, does not take steps,
even on small feet sandaled.
Drifts, perhaps, floats on an invisible cloud
-- Yes. Pastel pink shroud,
bodice snugged tight against breasts
demitasse small, wispy trousers.
She touched her hair, black as a raven's
wing, pushed a stray strand back where
it belonged.
I saw her face, lovely face; a brown heart
was its shape, almond eyes.
She did not look at me.
I was invisible.
I did not exist.
In her world, there was no huge barbarian
in wrinkled green jungle fatigues,
no foreigner with massive feet shod
in scuffed black leather and faded green canvas.
Maybe ... Maybe it was a cultural thing,
not to see the barbarians, not to recognize
racial inferiors.
If only they had looked at us now and then.