Inspired by Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks”
I was sitting there
on the dark end,
away from the windows’
reflections on lives ill-spent,
bookended by open stools,
as well as the day before today
and the night after tomorrow.
Squinting into the icecube
at the bottom of my glass
I see familiar movement behind me,
or maybe it’s there in front of me,
all these faces I recognize.
Or maybe just one face multiplied
in the melting moment suspended in my
too-swiftly dwindling spirit.
Perhaps it’s another illusion,
a mirage in my desert of time.
I really don’t see anything out there
in those near or distant tomorrows
that will make me feel better
about my todays.
That’s probably because
I’ve emptied too many
of my yesterdays.