Roger Camp
One Hundred Pairs of Eyes

It’s a small bus,
its banked windows
showcasing the Gulf of Tonkin
as we crawl up Hai Van Pass.
Mounting the summit,
a flatbed truck
stacked with wire cages
passes us, each compartment
contains a single dog, each dog
a clone of its neighbour.
The breed is unremarkable,
the face ordinary, the dingy
coat, yellow.
The same mutt
seen everywhere in country
four decades ago.
They drift by at eye level
studying me,
one hundred pairs
of deadpan eyes
searching mine.
Dead to me,
dead to the coming ambush
at journey’s end.