On Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks

By Ridley Longsworth

The city holds its breath.

Glass glows like a held thought,

a pane of light stitched

into the dark.

Inside, coffee never cools.

Words never quite arrive.

A man turns his back to the world,

wearing silence like a coat.

A woman cups loneliness

between red-painted lips.

Her companion stares past her,

past the counter,

past whatever hope walked in earlier

and left no tip.

The waiter waits—

forever mid-gesture

forever almost asking

how they are doing

and already knowing the answer.

No door opens.

The street offers nothing

but empty angles

and the promise of morning

that no one mentions.

I stand outside the frame,

face pressed to the invisible glass,

recognizing the hour

when thoughts grow loud

and company feels optional.

Some nights we choose the light

without choosing each other.

Some nights we sit together

and practice being alone.

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This poem is an ekphrastic meditation on Edward Hopper’s painting Nighthawks (1942).