The Conspiracy

The Cambodian kids speak English faster,

better than any other kids on the block

and all three bang my door the third

hopeful time since noon: Seth home now?

Not yet, not yet, no. Away they sprint,

barefoot on the flagstone walk

though it's November: wild geese last week,

this week the B-52's homing in on Chicopee

on dry-runs so low I see shark-teeth

painted under their black clown-noses.

It's touch-and-go all day, those bombers,

regular as these kids: who bang, now, to ask

can they attack my big leaf-pile?

Up they fling maple shrapnel-then I hear

mother-noise, Cambodian. Ordering

her kids out of my leaves and home, probably.

On her porch she ducks the roar

of the B-52: a bow to old terror domesticated

to what? a polite fear that I'll call

welfare cops for Cambodian leaf-pile vandalism?

Two kids already she's renamed

for saint and martyr-Paul, Christina-,

already bought them baseball jackets

and drills them in English, manners, quickness

as though to head off the schoolyard hate

we both know their gold faces will attract.

She's let me teach them to bunt and steal second,

turn them into ghosts full of trick or treat,

but her folk-dance of immigrant dread

-wince and bow to neighbor-with-leafpile,

welfare officer, bomber that bombed

her youth to moon-mud-makes me wince and bow

on my small porch, and wave to show I know

how that dance goes. One hand on the door,

one foot inside the house where each night

America surrenders to Cambodia,

she gives a wave so underhanded

I almost miss the small quick smile.

The smile that translates all-clear, truce,

OK, hello. That says the kids can stay.