By Kenneth Pobo


The last time I got into a fight
with Stan, we threw things.

I took a bank book right
to my bread basket. He took
a cat wand right to his shoulder.
We were arguing about junk.
He gets too much of it. I live
in clutter. He said no, he gets
the USDA recommended amount
of junk—I’m wrong.

I should apologize. We don’t
throw things at each other much.
The things might get hurt.
The bank book did have a crumple
after we plopped on the couch
watching Peggy Lee lose her mind
in Pete Kelly’s Blues. By then

the fight had curled up in a corner
licking itself, the Fourth of July
only three days away, our rainbow
flag at the cleaners. Our fireworks

over for now, the sun poking holes
in the sky’s gray blanket.