Another Sunday morning,
the dark roof of sleep
just melted. In my
newspaper skillet, events
cook to a crisp. Time
to dash into the garden
to trowel up hope. While
cleomes set seed, naughty
mariettas take psychedelic
sun. Round and round
they spin. Or seem to.
I slip back indoors
since it's happening again--
screaming, shrieking,
threats and counter-threats.
Her sobbing. Her husband
storming out to the van
and driving away,
away toward inflatable red
dusk.
- Kenneth Pobo
