Table of Contents - Vol. VIII, No. 4
For love, I made the horse
and offered Demeter the sea—
few want to live in water,
a universe with connecting rooms.
Light slides down. Waves
shatter a stillness which is only
an illusion. The good stuff
happens where you can’t see,
mysteries that descend for miles.
Even I can’t solve them. Take
your horse, Demeter. Gallup
on land imagining that what you see
tells you the truth. Whales
know more than you. They sing
as they swim. Depth
writes their songs.
Painting by Giorgio de Chirico
Sometimes I have to punish our living room.
Usually when I tell it to stay still,
it does. When it gets cranky,
the Lazy Boy floats to the window.
The coffee table eats a crumb cake
I so gently laid down on it. Even the fireplace
throws snowballs at us. Strangers appear.
I wish they were dead relatives and friends,
but they never come. Instead,
Ulysses drifts on a throw rug, blathers
about adventures. One time his little boat
had Penelope and Telemachus on board.
She had given up stitching and Tel preferred
dancing to battling. Ulysses has Ithaca,
shrugs when we ask if it’s fun being king.
The living room listens respectfully,
perhaps star struck. When it’s just us again,
we turn on the floor lamp—like seeing the sun
lean against the wall, yellow
lips forming a tentative O.
looking remarkable in a light red dress,
takes the February stage—not demure,
she’s Ethel Merman fitting
a whole theater in her voice. Only
exhaling allows the patrons
to go home. Madame thinks she’s
the hottest ticket in town—nasty
temps will cancel her show, snow
adding inches of insults. She’s singing
now, in great voice. Winter yawns,
hardly ever refunds unused tickets.
© Kenneth Pobo