Kenneth Pobo
Of Words and Flamingos
I guess I could be draggin’
a line somewhere or washing
skyscraper windows, teetering
with a squeegee. Instead
I’m at my desk fighting
with a poem. It’s fun
and unpleasant. A word can
offer a violet’s peace
or a yellowjacket’s sting.
My poem calls words to it—
often words get minds
of their own and run off.
A stanza blows up only
to reform as a single line.
I wish I were a traffic light
instead of a poet.
Red, yellow, and green,
perfectly timed, clear. Maybe
the traffic light is bored,
a servant to the expected.
Sometimes the page crackles
with the unexpected,
a flamingo that appears
in the dead of winter.
Other work by Kenneth Pobo