Public Republic

Kenneth Pobo

Photo: angelandspot

a barred owl
from her open bedroom window—
who cooks for you,
who cooks for you, she seems

to ask. No one. I barely cook
for myself, preferring
a Banquet TV dinner, or,
if tips mount up, Marie Callender.

A great cook, it saddens mom
that I never want her recipes.
Sometimes I tell her how
I can’t wait to make spatzle,
stick the recipe in the glove compartment.

There she goes again, who cooks
for you. If I end up with
a great guy or a great woman
or even an adequate person
who I can get by with,
I might learn to cook.
Something. Mom says
presentation is half the battle.

The owl looks for a mate
as instant as oatmeal.
I know how that sound trails off
at the end. Yet
the bird keeps calling.