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Kenneth Pobo
Wandawoowoo Liked

In seventh grade Annie Winkler 
told me the secret to popularity: 
It worked for her until she kissed
Keith McKintyre. Popularity set
her hair on fire and walked away.
I wanted to be popular,
a birch tree with leaves looking up 
to my tallest branch, fluttering 
as each says I’m wonderful.  
Dad cut the tree down,
said it should’ve been a maple.  

I needed decades to be fine with being
someone you see in a mall 
and forget.

I heard Keith overdosed.  Facebook laid
status update wreathes on his page,
all deleted.  

Evening light 
a little pink 
smile above brown hedges.