She reads Steinbeck
in slants of sun
at the window. She reads,
a piano only she can hear,
She needs something more
than prose of grass and strain,
boys holding shovels,
the days they told of wine.
California stretches from her,
its limes, its dance east
toward the Sierras. So she sighs.
She won’t be loved as roses are,
nor the skyline night. She will be
as one who came to the edge
and faltered, fell against a cabin
and slept. The soil’s scattered
with stones, old loves, and limits.
Carl Boon lives and works in Izmir, Turkey. Aside from his work as teacher and writer, he enjoys the Delta Blues, Chimay beer, and surf fishing.