He buys condoms to impress the late-night pharmacist,
He buys condoms to sleep by himself,
He has no one waiting in the bed,
But the pharmacist mustn’t know.

He buys a dozen red roses,
To offer to his empty vase,
He has no one in his life,
But the rose-vendor mustn’t know.

He’s that man in the Hopper painting,
A nighthawk all by himself,
Minding his own business,
Over at “Phillies.”

A man and a woman sit on the other end of the counter,
Dubious, dubious they seem,
Maybe he can give them his condoms,
Maybe he could have offered her his roses.

The stools next to him are empty,
People have periodically occupied them during the day,
Even the waiter behind the counter is not paying attention to him,
Talking to the other man and the redhead.

Soon, he must pay and leave,
The man across will leave the redhead,
To go back to his wife and his sleeping children,
Pretending he did overtime at the office,
Or he will leave with the redhead,
Purchasing condoms from that same late-night pharmacist.

Or perhaps the redhead will go back to her mother,
With whom she shares an apartment,
Her mother is still awake waiting for her,
She mumbles a “No” to her mother’s question:
“Do I fix you anything to eat?”

Even the waiter goes back joyfully to his little space,
In his head, all the stories he heard,
In his heart, all the secrets he would keep.

For a second, he’ll think about that fuzzy man,
Who comes before closing,
That lonely man in the Nighthawks,
That man who thinks no one knows,
That he buys condoms to sleep by himself,
That man who thinks no one knows,
That he buys roses to offer to his empty vase.