They’re not dark, he’s saying to a group of women
as I enter the museum, They’re evenly lit.
Maybe he means his own poems;
perhaps he means Hopper.
I trained as a painter, he adds.
We find ourselves walking together
through the gallery rooms.
He’s got on a rumpled linen suit
that looks like he slept in it.
I don’t mind, though.
I admire his gaunt jowls, a quick flash of smile.
He reminds me of Larry in our early days of courting.
We stop in front of Hopper’s Gas.
A flame of golden brush borders the black road
and I see what he means. Evenly lit.
I tell him this. Mark runs a hand through his brilliant
white hair and says, Every painting takes me to a place
I’ve never been; do they do that for you, too?
