Poetry

Edward Hopper’s Automat

One does not see the gleaming wall of glass, its nickel slots and plates of apple pie, the scores of harried customers who pass. Reflected in the window’s blackened eye, two rows of matching ceiling fixtures light a way to nowhere through the city night.   Inscrutable as an unsculptured stone, between the brass-railed stairway and the door, we see a woman sitting all alone, a quiet presence in a stark decor. Her posture mimics, spiritless and still, the fresh fruit posing on the window sill.   A little radiator crouches near the wall, and yet the woman wears a…

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