Automat

 

"Automat" by Edward Hopper, 1927, oil on canvas

I love the works of American artist, Edward Hopper (1882 - 1967), and I have written ekphrastic poems on his paintings Automat, Sun in an Empty Room, High Noon, Early Sunday Morning, Pennsylvania Coal Town, and Rooms by the Sea.

[HERE is an article on automats, for readers not familiar with the term.]

When I look at this painting, I remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach as I sat in a Greyhound Bus terminal at a stop in upstate New York, halfway between my birthplace and the country I would eventually call home.

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 unsculpted stone,

between the brass-railed stairway and the door,

we see a woman sitting all alone,

a quiet presence in a stark décor.

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 glove,

a knee-length, fur-trimmed coat, a hat.It's clear

her thoughts lie elsewhere. Maybe she’s in love . . .

She’s staring far beyond the coffee cup.

I wonder if some man has stood her up.

 

The empty wooden chair, the empty plate,

the downcast eyes beneath the cloche’s brim,

suggest he was expected. Now it’s late.

Too late, perhaps. So, with her prospects grim,

she weighs her options, as she slowly sips

and seems to pout with daubed vermilion lips.

 

Perhaps she can’t find work, and soon must pack

her dreams and bags and board a Greyhound bound

for where she swore she never would go back.

Perhaps it’s just her favorite stomping ground

where no one blinks at tables set for one;

where one can wallow in oblivion.

 

I want to tell her that I know. I know

she can survive whatever brought her here;

that glad and sorry seasons come and go;

that there is nothing and no one to fear —

I’ve owned the loss, I’ve worn the coat and hat.

I am the woman in the automat.