[January 2026, Issue 47] 1967. Saigon, Dan Carpenter

He is 21. She is 44.
Journalist on the make.
Poet, at peace.
His heartbreak coming,
Hers long since arrived,
In this place of his career lust,
Her voracious agapeic love,
This crucible that is consuming them
Even at this tiny table in the sun
As they sip Parisian cognac knowing
Any moment the street may explode.
So meaningless, so imperative,
His hand reaching for hers.