She sits upon a mattress. Gaze falls out window frame
to land beside nude lipstick butt reclining in the gutter.
Move her a millimeter and the bed springs percuss as loudly
as drums beating beyond the horizon of the Sahara,
faintly felt in the nearby café where his coffee cup nests
in saucer, the caffeinated eye of a storm swirling backwards
to tracks that lead the midnight freight on towards Lincoln.
Pigmented stillness. Enlarged sorrow. Lonely, sad Americans.
Yet I think of today’s woman flexing upon yoga mat or the teen
yawning into near-illumination in a stark classroom seat.
Our quest for mindfulness that would fill in the cracks,
leave 21st-century bodies as calm and free as a blank canvas.
Can we ever be together in this landscape of interned souls?
I will decide for Mr. Edward Hopper, for you and for me.