Wandawoowoo Waiting

Kenneth Pobo
Wandawoowoo Waiting

I grew up sure 
that I had a soul,
gave up
thinking I had one, but

there had to be
some essential me.
Did me disappear
like sugar in coffee?  
Did me go into sliding
into hiding 
where keyboard clicks 
can’t decipher it?

Or did it put its hand 
above its head, 
walking out slowly,
waiting to be shot? 

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. 

Slippery Wandawoowoo

When she slips on ice on the way
to her car, she breaks her ankle. 
Cold, everyone’s boxed indoors  

except for Mrs. Ott who often
cleans her living room window.  
Wandawoowoo and she argued

about dust floating 
from Wandawoowoo’s yard into hers.  
Wandawoowoo tries to drag herself 

back to her door. Mrs. Ott watches, 
laps a vanilla cone, her eye caught
between Venetian blind slats—

Wandawoowoo’s hoarse voice
lost to snowy evergreens
and helpless mailboxes.