Father

My father sold ice cream in train stations,

competing with other vendors with his

good looks and easy talks;

 

and on the busy streets of Battambang he

bicycled, yelling to passing tourists,

“Ice cream for a nickel, only for a nickel.”

 

Truth is I don’t know much about my father

except the stories Grandma told of his mis-

adventures, something like him getting

 

drunk one night and falling asleep

in the ranch and letting the chickens

pick his drooled and slobbered face.

 

Of course, none of the stories maybe

true, but as a considered poet and child,

I like to dream the truth of them, anyway.

Bunkong Tuon 2/4/98