Her red dress & hat
tease the sky’s level-
headed blue. Outside
a country depot,
she could be a harlot
or saint on Sunday
morning. We know
Hopper could slant
light till it falls
on our faces. She waits
for a tall blues singer
whose twelve-string is
hours out of hock,
for a pullman porter
with a pigskin wallet
bulging with greenbacks,
who stepped out of Porgy
at intermission. This is
paradise made of pigment
& tissue, where apples
ripen into rage & lust.
In a quick glance,
beyond skincolor,
she’s his muse, his wife—
the same curves
to her stance, the same
breasts beneath summer cloth.
