Nighthawks

Perhaps my favorite painting ever, Edward Hopper's 1942 masterpiece Nighthawks has been a poster on my classroom wall and a subject for analytical essay in my English class over several years. On the occasion of one of my visits to the Art Institute, it became the core of a poem:

NIGHTHAWK ON THE SIDEWALK


Hundreds of times I have walked this vacant sidewalk,
Hundreds of times and more, always so late at night.
Phillies Cigars still being sold on the five cent ad sign above;
Shops all shuttered, cobwebbed, abandoned across the street.
Every time I walk this curved sidewalk the air is frozen midnight.

And there they are again inside, of course, that couple
Looking bored if not despondent, all eyes lowered,
Never touching, never speaking.

And there he is again inside, as well, back turned to me,
Huddled over his coffee, alone,
Never moving, never speaking.

And the soda jerk is there inside, too, of course -- leaning over,
Dishing up a drink or making a dessert or washing a dish,
Never finishing, never speaking.

Frozen in time, we five nighthawks, never a twitch or a blink--
Four of them here since the middle of World War II, never a joke or a smile.
And tonight I join them again, out here on the silent sidewalk,
Locked away from the yellow light inside, facing the dark future
Lurking around the corner, where I do not wish to walk.
So where exactly is the door that might let me inside?