Drafts
My assailant waited outside,
called me a faggot,
and walked the other direction.
I wrote several drafts about it.
None got it right.
Drafts are like underwear.
You change them
but they still get dirty.
I wanted to say that no ass kick
would limit where I went.
Instead I talked about flowers
and loving the lavender ones best.
I tossed that bouquet
to say what I wanted to say.
Without flinching.
This draft may be another failure–
I edge
toward the precise.
I hear it cry in the distance.
***
You Said
Over coffee you said you hated the night,
that ghosts come out then.
Ghosts do come out—or they just might.
They can be a delight.
Some are animals, some human.
Over coffee you said you hated the night
when the dead hide in plain sight.
What would you do? Cage them in a pen?
Ghosts do come out—or they just might
kiss behind a rose bush. They don’t bite.
I used to be scared too–dead mouths might open.
Over coffee you said you hated the night,
fretting when the moon takes flight–
darkness breaks a truce with the sun.
Ghosts do come out—or they just might
share your secrets, me impolite,
visible to everyone.
Over coffee you said you hated the night.
Ghosts do come out—or they just might.
***
Pleasure
You think of pleasure
as an overstuffed grocery bag.
You add one more item—
the bag tears as you walk back
to your car. You always sought
pleasure, doted on the sweetness
of sleep—and drifted off
during a history class about
Henry VIII whose love of pleasure
made him rancid.
Some people collect model cars.
You collect pleasure,
polish it, feed it, clean up after it.
Even though you know it deserts you,
forgets your name, finds another.
***
Kenneth Pobo has nine books and twenty-one chapbooks published. He teaches English and creative writing at Widener University. His most recent book is Dindi Expecting Snow from Duck Lake Books in 2019.
Read More on Bengaluru Review:
Perceiving the world like a child
A delicacy of language describing small town lives
Bengaluru Review 