Poems by Kenneth Pobo

Fishing Dindi
 

I watch an eagle drop
down from the sky’s hem
to snatch up a perch. She has
more style than I do,
in my worm-smeared shirt
 
and torn sun hat.
As my bobber drifts,
I read a little Chekhov—
unlike this sunny day,
and provides shade. Dad
 
taught me how to cast, could
charm a muskie or a crappie
to swim up and say hi
or so it seemed at ten. Mom
cooked up our catch, said
 
she was proud of me,
a rare occurrence. They’re not
biting today. Anton waves
from a lily pad. As I wave back,
a loon cries but sounds happy.
 
I pull up my anchor,
start the motor and head
for shore where no one waits.
Except birch trees—
steadfast friends.
 

Dindi and Trina
 
Dindi has coffee with Trina
who lives with her “hubby”
and two kids—Trina calls
 
Frank a dolt, a couch potato,
a secret porn addict. Dindi
says oh, if only she had a dolt,
 
a couch potato, a secret
porn addict—instead,
she has Jason, a goldfish
 
who hides in an underwater
castle. Trina says Dindi
doesn’t get marriage—
 
stay single, believe me,
you get married and
darkness makes the bed.
 
Dindi says darkness has always
made her bed. Sharing it
is better than hoarding it.

Dindi Swimming with Morticia
 

I’ll bet Morticia would like
Helen Lake. At night we can rest
in coffin trees until morning—
 
maybe if I were a lake
I’d be this one. It doesn’t have
Lake Superior’s resume,
 
but also doesn’t have her
drowned sailors. Morticia
and I moonbathe
 
while Gomez checks how
Consolidated Fuzz is doing
on the market–we wade in,
 
feet cold, not stopping until
Helen touches our shoulders–
our heads, two floating lilies.