Poetry, Vol. 2.3, Sept. 2008
All night I’ve been awake wishing
I could be one of Hopper’s women,
maybe the one waiting outside her front door for a man
who is always late and won’t notice how like tracing paper
the fabric of her red dress chases each curve,
Or even the one who stiffly stands near her husband
ignored as he plays with his dog.
It is easier than telling the truth about where you’ve been.
I would rather be waiting, forever, than mourning my husband.