Every Room is a Waiting Room

 

If you could say it in words there would be no reason to paint.

-Edward Hopper

​

I am here, Mr. Hopper. 

I am ready. All is arranged for you:
high ceiling, significant light, 

              colors saturated to dream-intensity. 

 

Strangers are here, wearing faces I have

both seen and not seen. I am isolated and 

              in the company of isolates. 

 

You recognize me, them, us – as you know

             all who sit alone and reflect. 

 

I have read and heard that you are decades 

gone, your brushes long stilled. But I have

              seen you in Wichita, in Chicago. 

 

Even through glass (not the glass 

of windows), I saw you alive if aloof – 

and I know the dead well enough. 

              I cannot be fooled about such things.

 

I have walked past, moved through 

and lived in vacant buildings, facades 

              untouched by sun or streetlight. 

 

Now I am come to new life, stilled. 

I have learned to sit without fidgeting, 

eyes cast to the right and slightly downward,

left hand raised to my chin, barely 

touching it with the thumb and first finger, 

               a found object lost in contemplation. 

​

Did you see, just now? I have made myself

a mere collection of surfaces, no more 

or less alive than my coffee cup, 

or a hand-chalked menu, 

               or these nineteen jars of loose tea. 

 

No one is looking now. 

I am not looking now. 

I promise not to notice, not to shift

               and pose as you mutter and sketch.