You’ll be walking down
the chipped hallway,
paint green as a ghost,
and suddenly it will shine,
trombone notes, not
the usual dilemmas of
the leaky faucet, the Arab
man in bed muddying
your sheets. The music
was always there,
perhaps a cashew
falling, but he’s stretched
in the limbo of maybe-
love, maybe-not, maybe
you need not paint
that hallway, after all.
Or place a portrait
of the city on the wall,
the snow on the buildings,
your father’s sweater
to make him go away.
Make the music
to make you fall
to the floor in a frenzy
of better love.

Carl Boon lives and works in Istanbul, Turkey. Recent or forthcoming poems appear in NEAT, Jet Fuel Review, Blast Furnace, Kentucky Review, and many other magazines.

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