Walking Hopper - a prose poem

I was walking at the corner of Irving and Sheridan. Cabs, buses, cars bled with a scab of gray belch low in the gelid air. Above, a draught of light spilled out of the Redline, spilled lanky into the coffee of the night. It was then that I saw her, strobed in amber as the train banged itself taut and fleeing. I watched her decay velvet down the platform stairs. I stood gum on the sidewalk before ticked-out commands. Walk. Don't Walk. Walk. Don't Walk. Stirring a light thick with the vermouth of spent grease, she poured into the street and came toward me. It was then I saw her, tepid and far. I no longer heard the flickering scrape of the El, nor did I smell the burnt hashbrowns of the New Crystal Diner. I heard only a vague distant wind, smelled only the lurid musk of Obsession and rot as she passed beyond the veil of my brim.

◄ The Sewage Comes From Within

She Calls It Sorrow ►

Comments

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Devon Brock

Wed 12th Jun 2019 22:56

Thank you, Mr. Buck. I'm new to WoL, and still trying to get a handle on everything this site has to offer.

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Stu Buck

Wed 12th Jun 2019 22:39

this could have been lifted straight from the big sleep. wonderful.

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Devon Brock

Wed 12th Jun 2019 22:39

Thank you. Yes, the Hopper in question is as you surmise.

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Martin Elder

Wed 12th Jun 2019 22:27

What wonderful description. I particularly love the phrase
'spilled lanky into the coffee of the night'

without wishing to appear clueless would be right to assume that the Hopper in question is the famous American painter.

either way a great poem
Nice one

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