Edward Hopper Mornings The light is too perfect. Sliced across the waking street, it holds in shade or brightness each red brick. No nighthawks here. The morning arrives nostalgically sliding across the American dream. But all the peaceful shop fronts and silent awnings can not un-twist my anger. I am jealous of the street and hunger to be in that scene. I am a damaged Juliet, smoking Marlboro on the balcony and waiting for the sun to reach our motel room, on the dark side of my street watching Hopper’s world unfurl from shadow. Whilst inside, half clothed in sheets, you slumber on, unaware that I’m already gone, leaving you to her. Soon I will step out of the shadow and walk sure footed, crossing to that other sidewalk. Wendy Pratt If you've any comments on this poem, Wendy Pratt would be pleased to hear them.