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Originally from
1990
Nighthawks, after Hopper
The world, of course, is dead.
It was my father's as this could
be
Nickel Charlie's, the all-night restaurant
next to Loew's Poli in New Haven where he'd repair
after the graveyard shift on the Journal-Courier.
A linotype operator his fingers
swam
beside a window propped up by Four Roses
against a smothering night. Wasn't, though, this
lead and whiskey universe he died from since
he retired punching the copy out of tape under
a livid, technical flourescence - which
is of
my world of course. And I must
sit among these waiting nighthawks
to become
the one who shows a slice of face and who observes
the hard-edged guy, nondescript
in the dark suit of his time with gray fe-
dora and black band. I wear
it too, sniffing
the coffee, hearing the chromium hiss
of the polished urns, watching
the redhead
check her nails. Diner of
the Heart.
A blondish counterman thrusts down his arms
like old women washing clothes
in the rivers which erode exhausted cities.
The redhead played
367 for a year and it came out
the day she stopped. I say nothing,
having myself run out
of numbers, bad luck entombed
in the wool of my suit.
But then I mumble past
the obligation of our unconcern
that I'll play
it, three, six, seven staring out at nothing from the bright space
of terror. She says play a quarter
for me.
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