After Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks”

 

An empty metropolis
stretched onto canvas.
Millions, a throng
just out of frame.
Those faceless masses.

 

But he doesn’t see them
off in the distance,
or around the corner.
He sees four figures
stooped over cherry wood counters.

 

He sees them under a sign, “Phillies,” home of the 5¢ cigar.
These people made of color and oil,
He shows them to us
in a scene of stillness,
in a translucent box, empty.

 

They muse, lost,
in lives without form.
Gazing down
into burnt cups of coffee
and half-smoked cigarettes.