Morning Coffee And Evening Stench
Kenneth Pobo, July 2009
Today God wears his favorite
fishnet stockings and makes the sun
whirr. I turn on
the coffee maker. Everyone into
making things and still
not even seven a.m. As hour
weeds out hour, I retain
my good mood, partly because
WFJL plays The Balloon Farm’s
“A Question of Temperature”
which I haven’t heard since ’68.
Evening—I plop on the porch glider,
like that word, glider,
it sounds so boogity and boffo,
until an awful stench
rolls in, something between
cat piss and burnt motor oil.
Oh, how quickly a day can
turn into a needle
with disease shot straight
in the arm! It stinks,
but garbage men will come
tomorrow, God will gas up
another sun. I’ll drink
more Maxwell House, dawn’s
red canes poking out
the window glass.
