Room in Brooklyn
by Mary Jo Balistreri
       after Edward Hopper, Room in Brooklyn

High above in her eyrie, she listens to morning,
       ritual morphed into prayer,
              the rocker’s soft chant.

She bends to her book, to meditation.
       Intimate with quiet and solitude,
              the chair arms wrap around her in stillness.

And though the city sleeps still,
       the factory across the way
              begins to open its eyes.

Light climbs into her lap,
       nuzzles the back of her neck,
              lies down beside her on the floor.

A breeze sails in on a sea-green shade,
       trembles on the edge of something,
              a scent once remembered.

And like the flowers in her alabaster vase,
       profusion spills beyond what’s held—
              the simplicity of a measured life.



 

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