The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Lisa Kosow

EDWARD HOPPER, 7:00 AM

There's no breaking this stillness.
It has something solid about it,
in the railway station and the café
where a solitary figure stares off,
never toward the future, always
the past.  Or it's the early hour
when shadows fall at the precise angle
that captures a place
at its most melancholy.
There's no revolution going on
here, no surreal lion's head
floating in a blinding blue sky
or cracked eggs in the rust red desert,
no cubist deconstruction
of human bodies twisting
in a fragmented dance of bone and flesh.
No paint is ever splattered on the floor.
There's no music to it, and no movement.
Just a small town shop window
pristine white at 7:00 AM
before industry and passion have awakened,
sad yet reassuring. You felt
the way I did this morning.





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