The cashier can’t stand
his smoke break interrupted
by me, my five pounds
of detergent, my beer,
my cans of corn. It’s true
his girlfriend dumped him
this morning with a message
that read Get over it,
and then he disappeared
to stock the herring,
the Band-Aids, the mosquito
repellant.

I know he’ll go at six
to some apartment
where the roaches soar
against the kitchen cabinets,
and the TV will tell the news
of the President’s displeasure.
I know his empty bed,
his macaroni burning.
I know his former girlfriend
lies on pink sheets,
practicing her reasons
for being alone.

Carl Boon lives and works in Izmir, Turkey. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Two Thirds North, Jet Fuel Review, Blast Furnace, and Sunset Liminal. @hiway61carl