Nighthawks
The air is thick with
The acrid smell
Of burnt coffee
And cigar smoke
The counters reflect
The sickly sheen
Of spilled liquor
And sandwich grease
Not yet wiped clean
For the next day
The barman stoops to stow
Half cleaned mugs
On a dusty shelf
Empties ashtrays into
A bin already
On the brink
Of overflowing
A man in a black suit
Hunches over his drink
One part coffee
Two parts cheap liquor
Mentally going over
The contents of his pockets
Wondering if he has enough
For the cab home
And how he’s going to
Pay the rent
A woman lifts
Her crimson lipstick
Painting over her secret
Bruises with blood red gel
And old powder
Creating false smiles
With blush and mascara
She feels glamorous again
A white-gloved hand lifts
To smooth frazzled auburn curls
The ruby highlights glinting
In the harsh yellow light
She fingers a wrinkle
In her scarlet dress
That hugs her hips and breasts
Lending her curves
She does not have
Hiding her bony ribs
Flush against her skin
The man next to her
Looks away then back
Mesmerized by
Her rosy translucence
The flaming reds framing
Alabaster skin
Seemingly lit from within
By the blue flame
That shines from
Her too bright eyes
He wants to ask
To walk her home
But she’ll decline
Preferring to wander
Alone, exploring
The secret dangers
Of dark alleyways
Daring the night
To come for her
Based on the painting
by Edward Hopper