Kenneth Pobo Media, PA


The Wildlife Center sends
pictures of owls I’ve adopted
and a turkey vulture Stan adopted.
I tape them on a kitchen wall
by a railing. Now I don’t have to
walk up the steps
to get coffee. Birds carry me
wherever I want to be–

even Hortense,
the turkey vulture with an attitude
and a busted wing,
gladly helps me up the stairs,
her white beak
that can so quickly
smash morning’s glass window.


I’m on a raft,
can’t swim. You told me
don’t worry, it’ll be fun.
You lie. How easily
you can trap truth
and let a vulture pick over
all available flesh. I’m coming

to a rapids. This is it,
my death. Only it’s not.
Just as I’m about to drop
over the falls, the raft
becomes the inside

of a blue canterbury bell,
a cave with no end.
I could die here. In fact,
I do. And
this is a happy ending.


Dusk is a table we set
with salmon-colored silverware.
We have much to eat
only we don’t need mouths.
Eyes and ears are enough.

A lilac dares to be
particularly smelly this year.
Almost impertinent.
A Mirandy rose, deep red,
writes phony loveletters
to a nearby St. John’s Wort.

We’re stuffed
from such a feast.

Night “falls.”
We’re too bloated
to protect our heads.

Kenneth Pobo is a poet in Media, PA who has poems published in defunct magazines like Medicinal Purposes and Phase & Cycle.