or does Mr. and Mrs. Hopper
seem
like a gloomy couple
up there in
their four story walk up Brooklyn
apartment.
just a feeling i get,
as we stroll around the Whitney,
taking snapshots
of his paintings.
faces looking in,
faces looking out a window
at barren landscapes,
and bland buildings.
the exhibit spans most
of his life
in five white walled rooms
full of on lookers.
dark rimmed
glasses on the tips of their noses,
studying,
examining the strokes,
questioning
the meaning of it all, or lack
thereof.
it's an education, a glimmer
of what can
be done with a talented mind
and hand
attached.
we linger, we stroll. we gaze
and chat it up
about the browns and olive
greens,
the greys, the smile less faces,
as if the apocalypse
had taken place.
we wonder where should we
should eat lunch
today.
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