Winter 2009 - THE POTOMAC

Three Poems
   Kenneth Pobo

Well, You Never Know

We’re watching That Girl. Ann Marie
flies a kite with her face on it. Maybe

in the episode that would have
opened a sixth season, the kite

crash lands on her face,
pokes her eye out. Donald

dumps her for a 20/20
vision. It would never happen

that way, you say—Ann will land
a great part and become a star,

not lose an eye. Well,
you never know, I say, clutching

the couch’s armrest, wondering
will you bop me over the head

some day with a waffle iron
all because I forgot to buy milk? No,

you wouldn’t. Yet I sneak
the waffle iron to the basement,

hide it behind a broken corn popper,
flop down beside you, now clipping

your toe nails, lining them up
on the table, a kite’s tail.


women announce
a marriage

we could get married
if we lived in a land
where freedom no longer
paces in a cage
would we

happily combine income taxes
and towels
thousands of 45s
and a few trowels would

we rest on a porch glider
counting fireflies
and sex

like the crabby joke why marry
the cow when you already get
the milk but

we aren’t cows ... wait
I hear ululating women
and men

should we run
away or ululate

even louder, accept what comes
no matter what

March Morning

While ranuncula corms soak in
a cereal bowl, you come
downstairs in a suit, handsome
as a mausoleum. The one pomegranate
on our potted tree is almost red.
My parents call. I want to ask how
it feels to be over eighty. It seems
indiscreet and I’m scared to hear,
so I mention our cats. After lunch,
I’ll dig ranuncula holes. Local cars
go by way too fast, buds
that open for a day,
drop off.

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