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Poetry by Ken Pobo 

Ken lives in Media, Pennsylvania.



© 2006 Ken Pobo







Only once did my grandfather talk

about his mother, dead in 1922,

a year after Insulin—so near

to a cure, he blamed God, never


forgave, no "getting over."

AIDS killed some friends

before pill cocktails were poured,

white cell counts dropping


and dropping till they'd name

each remaining cell, joke about them,

waste away, fall

to labored breathing.  Help


comes—often too late.  The trap

perfectly set, hidden,

before it springs.  A caught cry,

a struggle.  Silence.





All work is property of Ken Pobo.




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