Click Page 73

Poetry of Issue #8        Page 73


As Dulcet Tones sucks
juice from a pomegranate,
his mother tells him that he is

a blob. She laughs,
doesn’t mean it. Usually.
Dulcet lobs the pomegranate

at her head. Ouch,
she says. Night shows up
at the door selling subscriptions.

Dulcet’s mother tries
to convert the salesman.
No sale. Dulcet would have liked

A magazine. He reads fissures
in the moon’s surface, billions
of years near his eyelashes.

It’s enough.

  Kenneth Pobo