Two Poems | Bob King

You cannot fall asleep because someone at work
has stirred you up over the last few days & now—
punching your pillow into being more comfortable
on a Friday night—as if the night or the pillow is
really at fault, you can’t stop thinking about
this person & so you imagine her as inside
a thought bubble, tethered to you through a wisp,
& it’s then that you realize while you’re laying here
unable to sleep because you can’t stop thinking
about her neglect, her possible motives, that likely
she’s laying in her own bed & tethered to
someone else, someone from deep in her past,
someone all the way in Florida who she used to
work with & you’ve never been & never will be
a person who she thinks about, all fired up,
still wound up from the week’s events.
That person in Florida in her thought bubble
has never thought of her since she left the state
for a better job that turned out not to be
a better job. Because the project is due Monday
& you just recently remembered, you were not
the only Croc-wearing procrastinator shuffling
down the well-lit linoleum aisles. You now can’t
remember if it’s supposed to be a solar system
or the visual atomic structure for sodium.
Your wife lays next to you, thinking that you’re
falling asleep thinking about her, but of course
you aren’t. You’re engaged in the made-up
work arguments you’ll likely never have
because you’ve never been more aware of power
imbalances. Your wife is thinking of you.
Of contentment. And by looking at Bridget’s
satisfied smile you’d never guess that one
of her employees is lying in her own bed
thinking about boss Bridget, that employee
needing to switch shifts, & frankly the employee
is a little intimidated by Bridget, but she’s also
noticed that when Bridget’s in a really good mood
she sings aloud, just loud enough not to hear
the lyrics, so she determines to wait for her
next muffled song to broach the subject.
And both of the employee’s kids are anxious
in their own beds, thinking about Mom, wondering
if she’s going to take the time off she’s once again
promised, & since Dad left, some hole in the center
of the universe, they only sense that Mom isn’t
thinking about them as much as she claims.
You’re disappointed in yourself at how much
power you still cede to others, yet amazed when
others cede power to you. Of course, you are
the center of this universe because when
it comes down to it, others aren’t going to be
narcissistic for you, & suddenly that’s back
in vogue, even if you were the one to point out
that it never really went out of style. So you try
to paint your crispy ball both blue & green
but because of the rush, the colors bleed into
some ersatz tie dyed superball, & even though
you’re tempted to bounce it, you know this
one won’t survive. They never tell you how
hard it is to paint a sphere in one misty burst
with your limiting two hands, & really the only
hope is that you sacrifice one of those dowels
for/as a third hand, covered in paint overspray.
It wasn’t until recently that you found out that
technically speaking elephants only have
two knees. You doubt you’ll ever forget that.

We are Hastily-Backyard-Spraypainted Styrofoam Balls from the Local Discount Craft Store & We—
Differently Diametered—are All Connected by Dowels of Varied Length & Thickness

The Emperor of Effort, with Sincerity                                                          

For a friend who turned out not to be a friend

We are a wasp, wasping at the window,
desperate to use our mouths to make more
paper, as in China, well before Europe,
but most Americans will never realize
that nonEuropean view, for who doesn’t
regularly beat furiously at the pain
of being trapped inside by another,
singular view, or even ourselves,
& once we enjoy the endorphin rush
of seeing the world through that thick
glass, we realize a blurred world
once seen is a world we chase after
again, repeatedly bumping against,
as if it’s only our tongues chasing
that sweet & simple syrup, alcohol,
or other stained glass intoxicant.
When instead of trying to support
a friend in pain, you suggest they go
through, not around, when you have
the map & instead want to see if their
own course makes it, out of desperately
needing your own void filled, well
that’s when you know just how
trapped you actually are.




Inspired by The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy (1997), Poor Things (2023), & Somebody Feed Phil, Kyoto (Netflix, 2024).

Bob King is a Professor at Kent State University. His poetry collection And & And came out in August 2024. And/Or is forthcoming in September 2025. New work appears in CrayfishMag, Ink in Thirds, Anti-Heroin Chic, Ink Sweat & Tears, & Allium: A Journal of Poetry & Prose. He lives in Fairview Park, Ohio.