My Friend Skip

complains about his wife Raylene—
she’s no good, boring, bad in bed,
and spends too much. I’ve never met her.
I tell him to please shut up. He’s
a commercial that runs several times
through the night. If I met her,
I’d say she should divorce his ass
immediately. Instead, Skip and I watch
the Cards beat the Phillies
which soothes him despite three hot dogs
and slithery cheese fries. We shouldn’t
be friends. I’m gay and he normally
thinks of gays as black locust trees
to cut down. Yet when I’m in trouble,
he’d do anything to help. I cringe
when people are complicated.
I want them to be construction paper,
always the same size.

People are like pots boiling
on a stove. Scalding water
slobbers all over,
puddles up on the floor.

Kenneth Pobo lives in Media, Pennsylvania.  His ekphrastic book, Loplop in a Red City, was published by Circling Rivers in 2017.  Forthcoming from Clare Songbirds Publishing House is a collection of his prose poems called The Antlantis Hit Parade.  He has been listening to Peggy Lee a lot lately.

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