On Not Seeing the Hopper Exhibit at the Whitney

But I heard it’s so crowded!
The woman leaving the theater is elegant,
pinched nose. The word dowager enters my mind.

The lobby presses us together.
We’ve forgotten how to do this.
I heard it doesn’t even have Nighthawks!

My heart goes out to her, truly. It’s twenty-five years
I’ve walked these streets. When all else fails, we walk.
Our limbs litter the place: awnings, bus shelters,

balconies strewn with mothers, night-shifters &
the ones returning from that date, that show, that other room
they set ablaze & so can’t go home, not yet.

Who arrives, who walks here but those in need
of softer landings, contemplations of loneliness before a canvas.
Outside: a grating, a garbage can, and wine.

We came to the city for solitude.
We were misinformed.