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Nighthawks
by MFrost Delaney
After “Nighthawks,” by Edward Hopper, 1942
We sit at Phillies counter
I can feel myself outside
watching us blazen-haired woman
in her brazen-blood dress
When did the street get so barren?
All the boys have gone to war
except you and that single man
at the counter—is he 1F too?
And the soda jerk too old in his crisp
white coat and hat an angel
serving a would-be hussy and her John
I want us to be soaked under covers
but you hang in guilt left behind
a boy who can’t shoot
Threads of dawn mend the night,
patch a slice of waiting my want
evaporating inside the rays
soaking into the wall
backdropping my view through telling
glass slip into my unsordid place
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