It's like a Hopper

painting, sitting on a bench --


next to my father.

banker's lamp green light of envy because
she will never be his late office nights
work done beneath sheer illicit thoughts
of her and her blue dress become his flights
of fancy wrapped tightly around her waist
blinds half-drawn the city is invasive
automobile engines and cigarettes
smell of lost love, dust, marriage and regrets
their futures already both faint shadows
on the walls outside the halls are empty
the desk is wet with sweat nobody knows
so they are free how empty they will leave
for homes already broken bittersweet
lives caught on repeat caught on repeat

Bright white vase, pink roses
rousing the blue walled sick room,
pointing to the beckoning sun,
drawing the patient on,
dosing her with life,
draining the manacing blues.

She rocks in her chair, tuning
to the fraught street air,
but soon it will be night.