Two Autumns Ago
I stopped in at Pete’s, got us
bi-colored sweet corn. We argued
about cabinet space. The cats
cried to go out on the porch,
though Margot, approaching nineteen,
chose the warm area behind
the propane stove. I went to work,
you went to work, cataclysm casing
the house, checking when we leave
and return. Warm days got arthritic,
turned colder. Frost ate windows.
Even then we thought everything
would go on as it had. Fall fell. Winter,
barely a day old–mom died.
Hardly a warning. Chicken wings
browned in the oven. The basement
smelled damp, needed vacuuming.
You’re beat. Work flattens
us out so we’ll slide easily
into coffins. I’m beat.
I’d kiss you but I’m coffee
that has drabbed in the percolator
for two days. Come,
let’s walk in the garden.
The usual suspects: an orange
rose eaten by Japanese beetles,
a dahlia prepping a red
and yellow bloom, too slow,
too slow. What’s this?
Behind a pile of wood
under a blue tarp—
a Rose of Sharon: how
did it get there? Something
pink and perfect leading us,
gently, back inside
to make love.
Bio: Kenneth Pobo has a chapbook forthcoming from Eastern Point Press called Placemats. His work has appeared in: Word Riot, Centrifugal Eye, Stickman Review, decomP, and elsewhere.