Ken Pobo  

 

     

 

                    Found Picture  

 

 

A barren lilac,

a few trees beginning to leaf. 

 

On the right-hand side

the date: Apr, 63.  Fourth grade,

Mrs. Hieronymous.  Or Miss?

Memory's a chalk board,

no chalk, just eraser.

In seven months I’d see

a real murder,

Jack Ruby killing Oswald,

my parents out.  A Sunday.

 

My shoulders are back,

my suit jacket buttoned

in the middle,

one button only, pants dark

like muddy cinnamon. 

Only us three in the frame.

 

It’s like we’re on a ledge,

completely unconcerned

that we may step badly

and fall.  Everyone steps badly.

You have no choice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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