The Voice of America   In Thailand, where it’s never cold, that one day was cold, a bleak November day, raw, damp — fresh misery to heap on sickness, guns and hunger, madness, mud and fear. The camp fell quiet. Every stitch they had, they wore, rags on rags. We had no more to give them. We did have a radio, reception poor — the Voice of America whispered, trembled from the world we’d left, where election day was ending, the polls were closing, Wyoming clinched it: an old fool, nary a gray hair on a head unburdened by wisdom, would preside over perpetual morning with a smile and thrilling hints of war.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont September 2009