Winter 1999 • Vol. XXI No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1999 |

Hackensack

Edward Hopper might have dreamed this place, painted it one sunlit afternoon in his studio, enchanted by the evenings of shadow and yellow, and that woman there stretching to pull down the shade on who knows what. Could be she wants to listen to Thelonious Monk in private—she wants to be alone with his surefooted cubist-noir boogie, all planes and angles clattering juxtapositions, songs threatening to keel over or collapsejust like the streets and buildings of this town that he loved—where you go whistling one night down Tin Pan Alley, humming "Round Midnight" on your way to some dive until a large and ghostly black man in a porkpie and overcoat steps out of the shadows to ask for a light.            for August Kleinzahler

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Edward Hopper might have dreamed this place, painted it one sunlit afternoon in his studio, enchanted by the evenings of shadow and yellow, and that woman there stretching to pull […]

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