Like so many children in Phnom Penh
You were playing on the street
Dirt on your body
No shoes on your feet
But unlike those children
You had an unmistakably western face
Maybe the man who fathered you
Had gone back to his country
Not even knowing or caring that you existed
And your mother was left to bring you up by herself
Maybe that was why you were playing on the street
Like so many children in Phnom Penh
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