I have seen the sunken jugs
rolling on the streets of Saigon,
the sunken jugs rolling with
the dream motorcycles from japan
china and korea and the cyclo
pedicabs and the motorized ones... some
by themselves... The sunken jugs
rolling with the dust and trash
and the trickery and the
thievery and the humanity
and the friendship and the
happiness and the sadness
and the satisfaction of
shedding one’s skin after a
long day of mental labor
and physical labor and
after a day of baloney
and peace without incident
and without work... It’s like
every sunken jug carries
with him a story sometimes
alike and sometimes unlike
each other’s, with happy stories
and sad stories and stories
both happy and sad all rolled
into one, some stories neither
happy nor sad... so that each
sunken jug rolls along his
own way, sometimes alike and
sometimes unlike each other, rolling
this way and that, zigzagging
slowly like a turtle cow
or rolling feverishly with
not a care in life for broken
arms or legs, without a care
for his own life or anyone
else’s... what do such small things
matter? Just drink a few more
sips and then roll on...