Inspiration Drawn From Hopper

Nighthawks

Edward Hopper

counter

i've only come here to sit

i say wearily

He passes me a cup of desperate coffee and nods

careful, don't spill

offering me a smile of faded hope and unfulfilled dreams

and we understand each other,

as he wipes the counter down.

i sometimes like to imagine

secretly

that all those empty stools were filled with the friendly folks i've never met

and that spark of flame was my girl

not his

as i stare at the two of them in silence

envy masked by the brim of a hat

cheaper than his

envy staining the counter at phillie's

cheaper than the place cross the street

but glinting with bleak pride

nonetheless.

he wipes

steady circular motions

even though there's never a stain

on the counter at phillie's

and the only sounds hitting our lonely eardrums

are the gentle squeaking of an old man's meticulous hand

and the soft giggling of my spark of flame

as he touches her hair

and i watch the fiery reflection drift

across the polished wood.

and maybe when she gets home

she'll comb out her red hair

and he'll hang his jacket on a hook

and she'll kiss his cheek

and i'll be alone

just me and the counter and the old man

trying to scrub away my impurities.

but tonight

leaning on the steady wood

underneath our hair and cheap hats

the future is wiped away with the imaginary stains

for we are all nighthawks

placing our burdens on tattered wood

staying out later that we should

and wishing that the old man

would rest his withered fingers

and let the counter get dusty.