Summer is the neighbor
who just quit talking to us.
The slammed door began
a hot spell, my face red,
sweat soaking my tee,
I yell at summer to stop
the silent treatment.
He drinks tea made on the sun’s
golden burner.  Through a window,

we see him laughing and smoking.
We kneel before lilies,
weed, my arms like cups
with a hairline crack.
All the strength leaks out.

Maybe summer will keel over.

We’ll skip the funeral
though we know summer,
with fury, makes the reddest
dahlias open
on a day when we crave color.

Kenneth Pobo

Kenneth Pobo had a chapbook published last year by Grey Borders Press called Dust And Chrysanthemums. Forthcoming from Clare Songbirds Publishing House is a book of prose poems called The Antlantis Hit Parade.