In school Harold Cockring Fizzlebotts
drew horses with enormous penises.
I said I liked squirrels.
He said someday he’d be a king
with a flaming gold crown.
Kings seemed like teachers
or our minister, George Crayhorn,
who, at 28, had apparently slept with
my mother, said adultery was wrong,
but he knew God
so just be chill.
Harold Cockring Fizzlebotts didn’t attend
any church. His invisible horse
took him to an invisible throne.
Invisible people worshipped him.
He needed help. We poked at our phones.
He turned into a stack of rumors.
Did he die? Was he in porn?
Did he run a far-right website?
Perhaps he’s a broken window,
sunlight through shards,
making a dark room visible.
About the contributor: Kenneth Pobo has a new book forthcoming from Assure Press called Uneven Steven. His work has appeared in: Hawaii Review, Nimrod, Amsterdam Review, The Fiddlehead, and elsewhere.
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