Current Writers 5

Poetry By Kenneth Pobo

ANOTHER WHILE I DO THIS YOU DO THAT POEM

While you plant lilies, I listen

to Lee Hazelwood singing

about Paris girls. I don’t know

any girls there. Or boys.

You come in. Day blows out

its own candles. We walk upstairs,

fall into bed. Morning bakes

a cake in the basement, frosts it

before you put on your burgundy

shirt for work and I pour

Cheerios in our yellow bowls.

PROGRAMMING

Religious broadcasts—

a nun on one, a preacher

on another. Sad nun,

rules rot her out, keep her

numb. The preacher, a rusty

ship in heavy rain,

hoists his absurd fury

on a tin can mast.

WAITING

The phone, a sleeping pullet,

won’t awaken. This could be life.

Or death. Or some wave

in between. We get quiet after

talk can no longer patch waiting,

pace. again. Will I see her

in this life? There is no next life,

at least I can’t see it the way I see

the 1930s mantle clock,

hear seconds clicking. We wait.

News will come. We don’t want it

to come, want it to come quickly.

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