Edward Hopper’s "Room in New York" (1932)

Evening deepening.
He’d slumped, exhausted,
Into the comfort
Of the stuffed chair.
Then leans forward
To pretend keen interest,
Devouring the p.m. newspaper,
Already a relic of time lost,
The flip of a nickel
To the corner newsboy.
Intently, he
Reads
The Babe’s latest
Or the little mayor’s
Brooklynesque speech
Or another
“Cannery Idles 300”
As he silently
Shudders
To a freeze-frame stop.
Anything to avoid
The emptiness
Of the closed door.

She, too,
Taking refuge in words

And notes,
Toys with ivoried

Sheets of music,
A Portuguese sonnet
In reverse.

Anticipating
A song, or movie,
Even an automat
Sandwich,
Anything to escape
The room of her day.
A half-turn away
Knows the half-expected,
The fully hoped for
Has dissipated
Into another
New York night.

In the museum,
We look through
The curtain-less
Window,
Marveling
At the separation
Of desires spoken
Yet unmet,
Understood, yet
Ignored.
And know
The title
Should have been
The Red Dress.

Room in New York (1932), Edward Hopper, Sheldon Memorial Art Gallery, Lincoln, Nebraska