A Winter Day, You're Asleep by Kenneth Pobo

I get up early and by
the front window I see
soppy flakes covering
my car. Our plants

grow by the sill. A crown-of-thorns
with a dozen salmon blossoms.
The adenium has two blossoms,
our own Madagascar
in the living room. Two sluggish
orchids send out new stalks.

A dead gray sky
tells me to drop my dreams
of spring. You’re upstairs,
sleeping late. I need heat,
the house chilly despite
a red-coiled space heater.

Kenneth Pobo (he/his) has a new chapbook out from Half Inch Press called It’s Me, Dulcet Tones. Poems will be appearing in Ley Lines Literary Review, In Parentheses, Rat’s Ass Review, and elsewhere.