Kenneth Pobo – Two Autumns Ago, Sometimes Pink

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.

Sometimes Pink

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.

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