Hopper Painting

Day in and

                day out

Lovely weeds tumble through

Gas for their cars that

                fly fast east

Few and

                far between

Bulbs buzz and paint peels

Roasted peanuts wait

                in their little bags

Hours turn

                days

Fumes pass the time

and chip the paint

                blown to the wind

Darkness

                looms

Birds don’t pass here

No one turns west

                where the sun dies

I stand

                vigil

For the day that

                something comes

The old man looks up from his scrawls and scribbles, unsure if he has heard something.

“Theodore,” the young man says again. He’s usually visibly flustered when he comes into the station. But today, he looks more nervous than ruffled.

“What is it?” Theodore lightly closes his journal and pushes it to the side.

“You know, we’ve been working together a long time. And I-- I consider you part of the family.” He started fiddling with the buttons on his vest. Theodore holds his tongue and doesn’t mention that he’s been working the station since before the boy was born. “And regretfully I must ask you… to retire.”

Slowly and with a smile he shakes his head. “You know I can’t do that.” Theodore grips his book and replies, “I can’t leave this place; It’d fall to pieces without me.”

“That’s…the point. We’re starting demolition next Monday. You have until then to come to terms with it.”

                Theodore knew that he’d be asked to retire sooner or later, but he’s held onto the shred of reason that he’d be able to return and visit. When he was alone at the station, he felt as if he had his own little slice of the world, expansive in its own.