JERRY BATS
By Kenneth Pobo
at the many icicles weighing down
old gutters. They crash into pieces,
the sound making him grin
under leafless trees. Jerry lets
the fragments lay, sun glinting
off each one. He could wait
for a warm day to melt them,
but he grabs his gloves and goes out,
saves the biggest for last, the one
hanging beyond the dining room
like an ice tree root. He taps
the shovel against it a few times
until chunks fall where dragon wing
begonias had bloomed, a light
red made of dusk
before autumn set its trap.
Kenneth Pobo has a new book out from Urban Farmhouse Press called
Booking Rooms in the Kuiper Belt. He has work forthcoming in: Eclectica,
Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Sweet Tree Review, Verse-Virtual, and elsewhere.