The Work Of Edward Hopper
A story, a kind of poem, speaking to the work and meaning of Edward Hopper.
The Work of Edward Hopper.
I was in that damn diner Nighthawks. Boring people wasting boring lives.
It was a long unending night. Too many regrets for the morning to ever come.
It was hopeless. I was hapless.
But then memory or something like it took me away, took me out of there.
I remembered my grandpa, always outside, doing something.
He just wanted to be away from her. Her and her dreams of Europe and far away places.
It was tough. She was always controlling him. He spent his whole life looking for some fresh air.
Except for that one-time convalescing in the mountain air, recovering from tuberculosis.
He was a man who never became the man he should. A lighthouse without any shine.
That summer, going back home from upper New York State, he stopped for gas.
And the world began to shake and move around him. He never recovered.
Back at the diner again, waiting on the night to end.
Remembering the woman that had stole my own soul.
She was unreachable, like a work of art. An ideal, a dream. Like this one.
This night continuing on like I was watching my own life – just a series of paintings on a museum wall.
A work of Edward Hopper.