First published in Issue 2, Fall 2009
Kenneth Poboth Pobo
DINDI JUST OUTSIDE OF J.C. PENNEYS
In the room the people come
and that sounds familiar,
like the gray coat an older
shopper wears who uncannily
resembles Grandma Myer—
in winter snow hardens
ugly and the cold
tortures it, so
I go to the mall, feed
hungry scanners where
nothing dies, nothing lives,
we walk and gape,
fluorescence softens us.
DINDI CHECKING HER TIRES
Some things are said too often,
like be careful or check
your gas, oil and tires.
I’m careful as a dime
snug in a meter. I check
gas and oil every two months
just in case. Also
my tires. A nail might
kiss the tread, might send me
into a ditch. Though
I find nothing, I’m never
sure. Disaster calls—
another wrong number,
but I say hello, hello.
DINDI AT THE SINK
The sill holds a salmon
Christmas cactus and
the last tomato
of the gardening year.
I scrub off mashed potatoes
that hardened three
days ago. Mom never
let things go that long,
kept an immaculate
house. Is she why
I slob around,
invite deterioration? But
I approach the sink
eventually, dip my fingers
in hot water, watch
junkos eat seed
fallen on wilted grass
before they fly away.
Copyright © Kenneth Pobo 2009.