after eleven a.m. by Edward Hopper
They say it makes sense. They tell you it does.
Last night the anchor said everything was fine.
But it’s hard to believe that from where you are
seated at your high castle window
where maybe the prince will see you.
(but is your hair long enough?)
Who placed you here, and how long ago?
This is no story, so there is no villain
so who then will release you?
(Heroes are useless in cities.)
This is not a story, not at all, so no one
wants to hear about your broken heart;
your poison apple, your deep sleep,
not Jon at the newsstand, not Mike and Billy
riding bicycles, not Emily holding an outside table,
not any of the hundreds who will pass beneath
your watch on their lunch hour.
They don’t want to hear that your clothes remind you
too much of the world, and only your shoes
keep you from vanishing. They don’t want to know.
This is not a story. They don’t want to know,
This is not a story they want to know.
This is a story: Everything is fine.
This is the story they want to know:
Everyone, everywhere, fine.