The Streetlight at the End of 42nd

The Streetlight at the End of 42nd
After Hopper

Restless, I have seen that look before.
There is some midnight plane mocking her
as she folds arms around herself, crab-like, an unmade shore,

sat as a sunbather suddenly remembering what’s in front
of her, streetlamp light, pumpkin-yellow,
pooling in the sheets.

Sure, I know it well.
She is tilting her ear to the worn
pebble vowels of a drunken street song,

trying to stay away from the thought of her head
slumped to the bottom, hair spread, swaying
kelp-like, in an old bathtub.

Yes of course, why have a window
wide open in winter with no intention?
If she wasn’t going, she would lay back, rest.