Two for Hopper.

19 February 2002

she’d be invisible
downtown cafe corner table
but for the flash
of metallic reflection

grown-up good-girl, slender and soft
schoolgirl-straight brown hair brought back neatly
cherry-red cashmere embracing like a shy friend
chocolate wool cascading attention down to the floor
and away
but for the flash

she lays the silver needlecase
beside an oat cake, unwrapped, untouched
beside an herbal tea, cooling, unsipped
beside a recent paperback,
nearly finished, uncracked

she opens the case
brings out a tiny bottle, a tiny needle
(nothing like the fat dirty hypodermics
that wash up on gravelly shores of nasty beaches)

she lifts her sweater above her belly button
nothing furtive
the tiny needle looks like it shouldn’t be so sharp
but it slips into her
like a finger pushing into soft butter

bicyclist commuter, he and his machine squeezing in
like the last two pieces of a jigsaw subway car

bright yellow-green safety riding suit
expensive white collar peeking out the top
pressed cuffs of black slacks teasing out below
atop wingtips for gliding, later, on sidewalks

in the subway tunnel
as windows turn to dark mirrors
he, unmoved by hurtling lurch
twists his fluorescent body:
does my shape show through?