Photo by Megan Nevils
The walls are harder plaster here, drywall Dreaming of something beautiful. Driftwood there Above the fire, and heavy bookends hugging First editions—second maybe. A piece Of art behind it all, a ship at sea. Three colors at the most: the blue, the white, The brown. A corner houses all: fire, Mantle, more, so look to the left, Where a wall is, slate tiles three, Inked over and mapped with fake Latin, see? Suburban rap, Delta blues, Midwest Manners and Northwest shoes abide here. Pass the wall on the right (it’s just a window) And the next one too, below which a couch— But wait: This wall holds the door, and a sign Of tin, on which Mr. Brando sits, looking Off to the left, beflanneled. Turning more, Past the door, and this wall holds the bigger Piece: Abstract but recognizably a shore: Teal, white, beige—the lighter answer To the rest of the room. This at least is what I’d say if any troublous person objections Interpose (don’t be distracted by the Rose), for the boys of Britton Lane decide here.
Noah, I had an emotional reaction to this poem that surprised me. I had never visited your apartment in Moscow, but I saw photos. I know the art pieces you describe. One of your roommates decorated the slate tiles, I believe. You were all proud of the pieces you chose to decorate that place. I know you loved your time in Moscow and I love the thought of the boys of Britton Lane deciding there.