POEM OF THE WEEK

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Hopper Drives Through Rockland

By Harry Waitzman

Before my grey hair and Buick,
Ed Hopper drove from Nyack
to Valley Cottage before Rt. 303 was widened

and the three gas pumps stood as caryatids.
I hear a Mack truck grinding up a hill,
the two lane highway runs everywhere
and nowhere. Hopper’s Dodge picks me up.

We roll on to the Automat. America separates
husbands and wives, friends and lovers.
A woman poses alone in her room.
I crawl in through an open window.

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