100 cars are scattered between 1,000 motorbikes
The driver, who peddles from behind my one-person
carriage,
Is utterly unfazed by the motorized traffic
inches from our destruction.
Pedestrians do not seem to recognize the
demarcation
That separates safe walking space from
no-mans-land.
Sidewalks are vehicular shortcuts, around
plastic chairs
Where folks casually sit and down beers.
Every imaginable colored sign is prominent for a
few feet:
The shoe store’s bright blue fluorescent is
immediately replaced
By the jewelers hideous green, followed by a
bleak coffee stand
Whose overhead yellow sign announces genuine
American coffee.
A working woman, sits in the day's warmth,
Speaks with a fellow weaver, perhaps a
sister-in-law,
Apparently utterly indifferent to yet another
day's noise and air pollution,
While two young, smiling, Australian dudes check
out the action.
There is little of the tension that characterizes
Rome or New York.
Hanoi has seen so much war and death that
Older Vietnam residence may find the city
confusing,
A manifestation of a normalcy that is far beyond
their experience.
Twenty minutes into my ride I accepted my role.
My driver is my possession.
It was singularly appropriate that I would view
the peasants
From my comfortable perch, and marvel at their
silliness.
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