After Viewing Edward Hopper's Automat

Night alone, drinking coffee from a cup,
knees tucked, hands still, one ungloved,
she's thinking past new sips and empty,
probably cold explains coat still on.

Well, Edward, what have we got here?

The middle-aged man in me,
father of daughters and husband,
grown old beyond women-alone-
drinking-coffee-want-me-fantasies,
wonders whose daughter she is.

It's still odd, you know, a good woman--
alone, at night, in public, drinking coffee.
I imagine most of us think pretty is lucky
and she won't be alone for long,
yet also know a solitary man drinking coffee
fits no one's fantasies but his own,
and his alone lasts longer than bone. 

"Ovals of Gold"

Aproned and armed with clothespin bags,
Westlake moms strung sheets on long gray lines--
devils rinsed out, love starched in,
gale flapped up, breeze blown down-

sheets so wet they snapped like small arms fire,
so dry they cracked like twisted pine,
resisting folds- later to be arm-wrestled,
settled and stacked in wicker ovals of gold.

"Roiling Bands"

There's a glance between strangers

hot like red roiling steel
hotter than August lightning
fisted into steeple tops

crackling cross and slate
shaking knees and symmetry

begging to be coiled into bands
to linger longer than instantly.