• Neon Mariposa Magazine

Two Poems by Kenneth Pobo


I’m in my pajamas

at 3 in the afternoon.

I haven’t showered. Maybe

I did a few days ago. Dishes

in the sink form an army

to overthrow me. I should be

overthrown. Sometimes I sit

by the window, sure that nights

now are darker than before.

The moon turns her back on us.

I used to think I’d be getting ahead.

Someday got stuck between floors

on an elevator. Nobody to rescue it.

In the morning the clock

will aim its second hand at me,

shoot--I’ll drop down,

not dead, just wounded,

infected by time.


I ask my mother “Who cooks for you?

Who cooks for you?” She says no one

cooks for her, runs her kitchen

like she’s giving a water fall directions

on how to flow upstream. We know

not to speak to her when she maps

out her concentration in spices

and flour. Sometimes,

like an owl in a tree, I watch her

worship at the altar of ingredients.

She doesn’t see me. I’d fly

out the window and up

into a tree--but she’s my mother,

and this is her favorite time.

Kenneth Pobo has a new book forthcoming from Assure Press called Uneven Steven. Also forthcoming is a chapbook from Moonstone Arts called The Book of Micah.

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