Edward Hopper: Sunday

Hopper: on Sunday.

You are casual

Not a church goer

Resting with your

Elbows crossed

Into your arms.

The wide, dirt road

Passes before you

Into The dark of your

Vision

While you wait

For your darlin

To finish from

Her Sunday

Singin and teachin

Your Sunday’s

Are for cigars

And rye

Laughing, late

Into the night

At the specter of

What it could have

Been

But instead

Your cigar

Burns down

To make a

Yellow tinge

On your right hand

While your wait’

On your baby.