tell me if this is all true

Kitchen

While you snore upstairs,

I eat Cheerios, the clock

covering me in a blanket

of dead minutes.  Our

threats dig under linoleum,

a yellow feverfew moon

blooming in the garden—

I’m getting sleepy, but if

I wake you, would you

pretend not to hear?  Maybe

our dreams will touch

since we can’t or our

threats will flex wings

and fly around the kitchen—

I’ll leave the light on.  They

may be drawn to it,

fly into the bulb,

die before we open

morning’s door.

Kenneth Pobo