by Kenneth Pobo
My favorite is a list
of my top songs.
Almost 3000 titles.
The shortest are by the DC5.
The longest is “MacArthur Park.”
The grocery list bores me. We
discuss at martini time
what I should pick up—the list,
a firm jaw. At the store
I forget three items. The list
has holes. I don’t make
a list of chores. That would be
a guilt list
since I’d ignore it.
The kitchen floor groans.
I have a list in my wallet
of the six medicines I’m taking,
which I hand to the doctor
or his assistant. Some lists
stay in my head,
like my favorite actresses,
Bette Davis leading the way.
No need to write it down.
Like there’s a chance I’d forget?