Strutting through the Old Quarter,
wearing a Nón Lá,
Ho Chi Minh t-shirt,
socks, and undies,
Enchanting incense and chimes.
Vital heat and vigilance
on the streets of difference.
Three cups of Vietnamese Càphê
in a Café,
both hot and iced.
So black and thick, it tastes like oil;
A hundred days since we left Hanoi,
street vendors, and their Bok Choys.
No matter how –
crossing the streets was a jeopardy,
where we heeled, there abides felicity
of the three careless tourists,
of the three pampered tourists
with mild gaucherie,
and assorted memories
Ten minutes is long enough to uproot your life, get caught in a storm, drink a cup of coffee, memorize a child’s face, wash a sink full of dishes, recite wedding vows, fall in love with someone you shouldn’t, eat a sandwich, remember a dream, call an old friend, sketch a figure model, read a chapter, listen to your favorite song, get on or off the train that will change the course of your life forever. Ten minutes is enough time to write something strange and beautiful and true without editing the strangeness and beauty and truth out of it. We all have ten minutes, many times a day, so it’s hard to come up with convincing excuses—even to our secret innermost selves—why we don’t. Ten minutes is everything we can’t fit into a Facebook status, it’s slice of life, short-shorts, a Polaroid picture, a poem, a prayer.
What stories from your life can you write in ten minutes?