| Edward Hopper Mornings
The light is too perfect.
Sliced across the waking street,
it holds in shade or brightness each red brick.
No nighthawks here.
The morning arrives nostalgically
sliding across the American dream.
But all the peaceful shop fronts and silent awnings
can not un-twist my anger. I am jealous
of the street and hunger to be in that scene.
I am a damaged Juliet, smoking Marlboro
on the balcony and waiting for the sun
to reach our motel room, on the dark side of my street
watching Hopper’s world unfurl from shadow.
Whilst inside, half clothed in sheets, you slumber on,
unaware that I’m already gone, leaving you to her.
Soon I will step out of the shadow
and walk sure footed, crossing to that other sidewalk.
If you've any comments on this poem, Wendy Pratt would be pleased to hear them.