On Nighthawks
by Jeff Santosuosso

Darkness, anonymous nighthawks
look down. None can see their eyes.
Nighttime hearkens
nighttime darkens around the corner’s guise.
Rays of light, yellow door,
coffee in the urns,
red dress, blue shirt, blond hair,
as the tinted glass wall turns
the corners of the building
to the shadowy avenue.
Four someones sit inside,
but mostly four alone.

Open windows across the street
- or closed? - framed in stone.
Florescent angle
shocks and awakens
this corner, oddly bright,
this flattened photo taken
of empty barstools, five before us.
They stand there sentry, or sit in chorus,
murmuring through this night,
as one man’s back is turned.
He wears a fedora.
At the edge of his right hand,
a mug sits before him,
empty, full, or just unmanned?

The waiter moves to serve them,
crisp, clean, starched and white,
faceless darkness,
anonymous nighthawks
in manmade human light.

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