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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