by Kenneth Pobo


I shovel up fireplace ashes
and distribute them around the roses.
Spring will look redder.

Some ashes blow in my face.  
I lick them off my lips.
My eyes water.

Disappointment writes hot checks.
I fear the collection agent
standing out in the rain,
knocking, more knocking, 
him getting wetter and angrier, 
me eating a Klondike bar in the dark.

My name is Wandawoowoo,
a name like a bandage
that can’t quite cover
the whole wound.  I’m told
to snap out of it, suck
it up.  I don’t snap or suck.

I bend, a licorice whip left
in the sun, making the table
sticky, the candy stretching
like a fake smile.


Kenneth Pobo has a new book out from Blue Light Press called Bend of Quiet. His work appears in: Nimrod, Indiana Review, Hawaii Review, Mudfish, The Fiddlehead, and elsewhere.