In a bun both New Jersey
could fit in, Aunt Gwen blabs
in a gold dress with matching bracelets,

points a turkey leg like a revolver
and shoots. Working with the public kills me.
I should know. I’m dead. I’ve been at Macy’s

. I’m the public, also her nephew--
the gun has a chomp out of it. Customers
should be shot,

no questions asked. On Black Friday
I go shopping while Aunt Gwen
USairs back to Indianapolis--she

refuses to work that day. In Macy’s,
I see salespeople, drooped, grinning,
hungry to make a sale, hungrier to go home.

The mall looks like a McDonalds
paper cup floating on a river.
Waterfall coming up.


# # #

Aunt Gwen by Kenneth Pobo
originally published April 16, 2008



Kenneth Pobo has been published in Nimrod,, Hawaii Review, The Fiddlehead, Orbis, and elsewhere. His poetry collection, Glass Garden, was published by WordTech Press.  

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visit his Big Pulp author page


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