by Kenneth Pobo
Groovy. I want to be groovy the way a waterfall is groovy just as it slides
over the edge, groovy as in a dictionary that gets a new word
and doesn’t mind if it’s sexy, or groovy like a mall
when every car has left and a blathery old moon plops on
an anchor-store roof.
Hip. My grandmother said “hep” but she meant hip. She didn’t like it.
It meant you were into drugs, sex, and… I never could be hip.
My hips aren’t hep. I might aim for novice hip
and work my way up. Or down. Or maybe I can be hip-notized,
a hippo Hippolytus, a hiphop hoppetyhophop hip.
Outtasite. Once upon a tyme, I was almost outtasite. Crows
skidded over my wheatfield blond hair. I had a body
to dye for. When you’re close but not quite outtasite,
you know how a mountain feels when
the prettiest leaf blows off you onto a rinkydink hill.
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