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Issue 4 Poetry

[KENNETH POBO]

WHEN YOU LIVE IN MIDDLETOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

it’s easy to forget how to fly. So much
takes off without you. I’ve seen roofs rise
to meet birds in mid-air. Steam

from pancakes cooking rises—
so do the pancakes. They form
a chorus line against the kitchen

window and dance.
I used to fly. As a child,
my wings took me everywhere—

by the way, Saturn is nice in February.
Little by little my wings weakened.
Feathers fell, and try as I might,

I got no heft.
I said I may as well go to school:
gradebooks, assignments,

no flying allowed. Someday
I may fly again. It’ll just happen.
I’ll be eating pancakes, the dining room

a private airport. Look up
beyond the pine. That will be me,
flying, no destination.

[about]

Kenneth Pobo is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press), Loplop in a Red City (Circling Rivers), and Lilac And Sawdust (Meadowlark Press). His work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere.

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