It's Still Life

A Voyeur’s Glimpse of a Room in New York

She rests her finger on a key. G Flat.

Admires the Red No. 1 on her nails,
and then presses the key. Softly.
A single note shivers across the room.

She pauses as if some great thought
passes her mind, but there isn’t one.
And it didn’t. Her thoughts are empty
as air. Heavy as a New York summer,
as this slap-up room with its walls
painted with nicotine condensation.

And she rest her finger on A Flat,
and then presses the key. Softly.

She sighs as if some great amatory
urge passes her mind, but it didn’t.
She presses the keys, randomly.
No tune. No interlude. Just noise.
She sits quietly. Making noise as

he turns the page of The Times.
He can’t read. Can’t think. Noise
is a mind-paint, a mental rattling.
She’s just noise, he thinks. She’s
just a toothache. A fork in the eye.

He feels uniquely single. She feels
the ache of longsighted time.

She rests her finger on a Middle C.
Admires the Red No. 1 on her nails,
and then presses the key. Softly.

Written to prompt at Poetic Bloomings Edward Hopper image/ekphrastic prompt. ©Misky 2021. Image is Edward Hopper’s A Room in New York.