![]() The place is the corner of Empty and Bleak, (originally published in The Yale Review, also published in The Best American Poetry 1991 ) He’s thinking he’s the luckiest man in the world The smell is faint or anyway, crazy for herīurying his hot face in her neck, between her coolīreasts, or her legs - wherever she'll have him,Īt her, and he doesn’t mind that, why not,Īs long as she doesn’t look back, in fact Or like the henna she uses to brighten it, but Of her hair stirs, and it smells a little like ashes She gets the stiller she is, hasn’t said a word ![]() She’ll slap his face hard, You know I hate that: Stop! Running his hands over her like he has the right, Them down, she’ll slam out of the goddamned roomĪnd if he calls her Sugar or Baby in that voice, He let them down, they trusted him and he let He starts in about his wife, his kids, how Though she isn’t going to demean herself. It’s the middle of the night and she has a feeling To use a ladies’ room but there isn’t one hereĪnd Jesus how long before a gas station opens?. Wears off and her makeup gets caked, she’d like Not very flattering, she hates it when her lipstick The light in this place is too bright, probably It’s primarily relief, this time he’s sureĪs hell going to make it work, he owes it to herĪnd to himself, Christ's sake. On the other stool unmoving except to sip Stooped as he is and unmoving, and the man Mute, horizontal, and the counterman in white, Is this a dream? - so much that’s wide, still, He’s a little dazed like a man in a dream. Thank God he made the right move at last, Not the kind to talk much but he’s thinking Nor is she going to scream at him, she’s finished The signs, an actual smell, sweaty, rancid, likeĭirty socks he’ll slip away to make telephone callsĪnd she swears she isn’t going to go through thatĪgain, isn’t going to break down crying or begging Has it gotten her so far, and where? - he’ll start True pallor like skim milk, damned good-lookingĪnd she guesses she knows it, but what exactly Pouty lipsticked mouth, she has the redhead’s Her companion has finally left his wife butĬan she trust him? Her heavy-lidded eyes, The woman is wearingĪ short-sleeved red dress cut to expose her arms,Ī curve of her creamy chest she’s contemplatingĪ cigarette in her right hand, thinking that The three men are fully clothed, long sleeves,Įven hats, though it’s indoors, and brightly lit,Īnd there’s a woman. That this man is turning his back on you. He likes knowing women like this still exist Two block away in a doorway, a junkie groans ![]() They don’t say a word, and why should they?īoth of them smoking, but there is no smoke. The man behind the counter, two men and a woman. (Wolf Wondratschek, born 1943, German writer and poet) Nighthawks: After Edward Hopper's Painting ![]()
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