Kendra Kopelke
View original painting by Edward Hopper
Western Motel
I am Hopper's duende,
the blonde version of him.
That's why he has me
marooned
in this motel room
somewhere out west,
why I am in the way.
Try not looking
at me, you'll see.
You'll see how your
view is blocked
by me, by you
looking at me,
that one exchange
of heat and fire.
The earnest and
shadowy hills try
to give off
warmth, wearing a thin
negligee of light,
but I have
come between
that and you
too.
The hills roll
like the sea at night,
as strange to me as
sleep.
Forget
what things are,
in real life,
forget the story,
in the end
the man dies
and leaves me here
like a yellow
layer cake,
like a green car
with the engine still hot,
leaves me,
like a blond
sitting on a bed in a motel room,
wearing a maroon dress
you cannot take off.
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