Poem By Ima Ryma
It was called the fall of Saigon,
When Uncle Sam withdrew support.
I watched from the bus that I was on,
One of the last for the airport.
A man ran alongside the bus,
Holding a baby in one arm;
Pleading with those he saw of us
To take his child away from harm.
The bus began to pick up speed.
My arms reached out; the man then smiled,
And ran faster to succeed.
But he stumbled and dropped his child.
Ever I'll hear the babe's last squeal,
Then crushed beneath the bus'es wheel.