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Kenneth Pobo
Tatyana Clanging

On the porch while
wrens do a birdbath bop, we
sip martinis  Dead
Bette Davis drops by, spills
goodies about J.L. Warner,
then slams back to heaven
and hell—why choose? 
Tatyana huffs out,
clangs her trash can lids,

Bette Davis, Christ,
will you guys shut up
about that bitch?  My windows
are open and I hear
everything, everything,
including all that mushy
bullshit about magnetic
crotches
—clang!—I’m going
inside now, but can the blab.  

Her back door,
a nail pounded into a cross.
Bette, like George Jetson
in his space car, guns
the engine, smokes
a cigarette so large

that Tatyana darts out
of her house
again, wheezing,
threatening to kill us all,

but Bette cackles, says
death is mostly fun
and Tatyana will find that out
soon enough.

 

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