“Ode to Edward Hopper” by Tom Stock

Somewhere on the edge of town, straddling the cusp of day and night, a rooster crows.
Nighthawks retreat to their roost to sleep as the town stretches, scratches and opens eyes.
Anytown.
Upstate rust belt main street brick buildings catch the day's first harsh rays.
Stark sundials along deserted sidewalks measure decades one day at a time.
Glancing over the horizon like a child peeking from under the bedcovers,
First light dallies until skyward momentum builds and begins boldly brushing the chiaroscuro in strokes of Yin and Yang.
Cross diagonals, nature's cubistic expression dividing buildings by severe angles in shades of black juxtaposed with imbued gold washes.
Not soft dappled sunspots of some deep sylvan glade, noon softened, solar zenith realized.
All pretense and pretension burned away by the stark, too yellow light which will not tolerate soft focus but allow only blunt morning truth.
Old store fronts, earthy redbrick ochre become the canvas for this painter as dawn’s calling card is delivered.

But...

It is the shadow that defines this science fiction landscape, post apocalyptic humanless stage where Godot finally shows up.
It is the shadow that demarcates East and West and where noon will chase all orientation and sense of celestial direction underground.
It is the shadow that tempts, demands the eye to look deeper for detail in the unexposed film of this camera obscura.

A solitary black bird on a wire attempts warmth in the yawning, weak, still sleepy sun.
Vacant, the electric blue sky holds promise.
Sporadic noiseless cars appear like smooth, gliding phantoms
Casting off glinting metallic glass diamond shards into the vacuum like surroundings

Until...

They disappear down surreal streets where perspective plays tricks.


The Bread Truck delivers future toast to Greasy Spoons who make ready for Blue Collars.
Bundles of fresh newsprint sit in front of news room facades waiting to inform the world of what happened yesterday.
Upended garbage cans wait to be retrieved and refilled with the detritus of the day.
Slowly,
The conscious world revives,
Wakes from what dreams they shared last night.