Nighthawks

Sombre reflections around the corner,
where quiet old Phillies’ lies.
There two lovers seat,
her arm graciously curved
into him –
his fingers rest gently on hers.

Two cups of coffee
and a white hat
highlight the shell of a gentleman.
His face shadowed,
almost like a black veil –
he’s no innocent treat.

Her neatly swept red hair,
like a copper helmet,
falls in a cascade of angelic curls.
Her attention stolen, kidnapped,
by a small pack of sugar –
she’s intrigued – ignoring his presence.

He speaks in whispers,
as though the tired waiter
has not yet suspected their crime.
His tanned wrinkled face
has shone on others alike –
he knows their story – their owes.

Even the lonesome fella,
he reads him
like an open book.
There’s no-one in the street,
the silence is loud, the guilt floats in the air –
like in a courtroom.

As a nighthawk painted
with luscious brushes,
freely flowed, devoted
each stroke to a character
in the story. Now he sleeps –
a long rest is needed – as he puts out the cigarette.