Painting Poem.

Eleven A.M.


By: Sarah Carbin

Eleven A.M. The sun is pallid and not yet noon.

She sits stolid, waiting at the open window.

Clad in nothing but her black house shoes.

A flood of red hair harbors her face.

What she is waiting for I can not say,

But she looks east for a lover far, far away.

The streets are so busy, alive with sound.

How could she feel alone in this behemoth town?

Her bleak body sits bathed in sun,

Cradled by a plush blue chair.



The curtains are not yet drawn.

The bed not yet made.

Letters sit on the side table not yet answered.

The curtains will remain not drawn,

The bed not made, and the letters not answered.

At least until twelve P.M.



Painting by: Edward Hopper