Ken Pobo
Aunt Stokesia Misses the Train

Tonight I broke up with
the most handsome fog.  Or he
broke up with me.  Either way,
by mid-morning he was gone.

At the dining room table,
I buttered a roll, drank coffee,
and decided that rather than
be lonely, I’d open the window
and listen to noisy birds.

I closed it, turned on the TV
and watched a vague comedy.
Laughter can ease loneliness,
my neighbor Mina said.
She died alone.  I’m a picture

of a steam locomotive.  The train
stops for me.  Even though
I’m a few steps away, I miss it.

*

Aunt Stokesia’s Planter

When Lonnie and I decided
we couldn’t live together anymore,
he told everyone that we had
grown apart.  Like a spider
too far from its web.

The planter outside
of the garage broke—
dirt runs out onto the driveway.
The house looks like a mouth,
a tooth missing.

Maybe I’ll get used to it,
grief like sloppy dirt
ready to be shoveled away.