Ken Pobo

In the patio we put in, gardenias guard our unpainted palace. Deck chairs, a clear-glass table, and scented candles. Wed love to have you over, but our patio drifts over trees-- not of earth, it prefers others. Were boring. We cant help it--were alive. Clouds stop by the patio. The moon too. How can we compete? We go to work and change our wills. Our crabby documents also want to be on the patio. We sign them. They slip into small drawers, hide from lawyers. Sometimes petals rain on us, an omen we take as a sign that were not forgotten. ****

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Panic! Poets

Panic! Art Gallery