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Window

By Rod Jellema Poetry

He looks skyward and sees he forgot to snap off the lamp in his upstairs study. He’d call it aging, but aging is not, he tells himself, a downward slope. He hadn’t climbed to get here. His life isn’t a hill. It’s more like a long sleep, with tens of thousands of dreams, dreams of…

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Automat

By Rod Jellema Poetry

Edward Hopper, oil on canvas, 1927 Nothing automatic or newly modern here, nothing springs open to dispense a bowl of hot soup or a cool slice of pie in exchange for coins. But neither will a waiter intrude. The young woman sits alone, fashionably dressed and without expectation. Surely someone said he would meet her,…

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