Kenneth Pobo

Cans Downstairs

Whenever they go to the store,
they pick up canned foods, die

within six weeks of each other,
different floors,
same nursing home.
When we pack up
what can't be sold
at a lawn sale,

their cans won't budge,
craving the basement's dim
mustiness, TV Guide
picture of Julie Newmar
above the ringer washer.

Cans gossip,
rub labels together,
hunch down in bunker shelves,
shelter two souls

which escape the cemetery
to find a heaven
among peas, pears, and carrots
in a house sold to strangers.

Empty Cabinet


He pulls out glasses,
clears my three levels—
hinges squeak, my door
slams. I’m alone
in the dark, display
nothing—no fingers

to yank me open,
snatch tumblers,
bang me shut—

nearby cupboards hold
pots, pans, glass,
loveletters hidden behind
a mug that says
GO CUBBIES.

I think of dirt
without footprints,
malls after closing, banks
when the night watchman
slips out on the sly.