Ken Pobo

THIS MORNING I

meet Dorothy on my way to the

Emerald City

which has fallen on hard times—

unemployment, lousy health care,

Glinda joining the Tea Party. 

I tell her I’m gay.  She says she

used to be but now she’s sad. 

This kind of mis-communication

has gone on my whole life.  She

introduces me to her three pals,

all nice but neurotic, asks why

I’m headed to Oz.  I don’t know,

just seems fun to brave a poppy field

and go.  So, we’re off to see

the Wizard, who demands

that the locals fight in illegal wars

and builds an oil pipeline

behind his signature.

EGGPLANT

We really need to clean out

our fridge more.  It’s icky

so we put on

Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?

and hope for the best.  Yet

today I brave it, pull out

the fruit bin and find,

to my horror, an eggplant,

garden fresh three months ago,

an oozy corpse.

How like America now!

Guns rampant, many leaders

making whole populaces ill—

even a single word

can wilt cities.  Racism

a badge of honor.  Hate

tossing babies off ledgers. 

The eggplant had such a deep purple,

skin unbroken.  The bin

needs hard scrubbing,

strong disinfectant.

IN THE WAY

If I take the Amtrak

from Philly to New York

and I’m in a good mood reading

something bleak by Hardy or

making a list of my Top 25 songs

by The Dave Clark Five,

and some blob of a corporation

grabs the seat by me,

takes it over completely

so that I can’t breathe, I beg him

to please, please give me some room,

but he doesn’t hear, just keeps

stroking his laptop,

I know I’m a goner, know

that the conductor will arrive

too late and I’ll be just another

accident,

something in the way.