Kenneth Pobo

IN THE GROCERY STORE


I reach for canned pears
and realize I’m living in
a dictatorship. Some

orange-faced man
has snuck in requiring us
to make him happy, express
our gratitude for him,
fluff the pillow of his ego.
Every hour of every day.

Maybe then he won’t
come after us. He comes
after us anyway. We had
a dream of safety,
of placating. The dream ends—

one by one laws wither
and turn into kindling. We’re
forced to stand on the kindling
while he throws matches.

I think I’m ready to leave
the supermarket, but find
I’m on fire.
AFTERLIFE


Some say that
where I’m going
a rainy fire
will fall on me
forever. Where
they’re going
will be peaceful,
no need to remember
those of us
in nasty heat.
Their peace

seems shaky,
the bad deeds
forgiven and clearly
forgotten. Evidently
because I didn’t sew
John 3:16
into my suit pocket,
I made a choice.
I could be “up”
where they are
in a world of
endless light,
perfect conditions,

no gardens,
no poems.
AFTER MANY YEARS


I lost my mother in January,
still feel empty. A gray sky settles in,
cloudless, unyielding, hanging heavily.
I lost my mother in January,
grief returns once again, overtakes me.
By the window I hear a vicious wind.
I lost my mother in January,
still feel empty. A gray sky settles in.

Kenneth Pobo (he/him) is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and ten full-length collections. His new book, It Gets Dark So Soon Now (Broken Tribe Press), is now available. Recent other books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press), Loplop in a Red City (Circling Rivers), and At The Window, Silence (Fernwood Press). His work has appeared in Asheville Poetry Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Amsterdam Quarterly, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere.

Banner Art:
from Doberdò – Scene from the First World War, Dezider Czölder, 1901-1925

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