The street side painter...

This tabachi lotto store
That pigeon pooped alley
And sacrosanct three storied facade
Biege and sobered with visions of paintings married
Reminded her so much of the man
Old wrinkled faced...shaking hands
But once he stood before the canvas
He became so young
Brushes thin bristled and long
Made him to capture dreams
A tree by the river...
A girl sitting on a stone it seemed
So real as if he had been
To places sure by his foot
Treading across hearts of the multitude...

Sometimes he would work with charcoal
Blunt headed and black and grainy
He kept on enjoying his flight
And the noise of pennies
That used to fall
Made on him no impression at all...
Cars passed...
People walked briskly...
Some grave faced...
Some with friends high fived and laughed...
But he was by and large ignorant
Of passing screens of population on the move...

This tabachi store
And the alley with pigeon poop
If you would by chance stop
And have a chance look
You would find him there
The street side painter
A little piccolo
A tiny space
In his colored smudged dress
A cheroot on his mouth
On Monteroliveto towards south
He would be found...
The street painter no doubt...
Catching everyday life
Rushing gliding whizzing cycling by...

Once he wrote a story of a tree
Another day he with a big blue sea
Eloped to another time and space altogether
Yesterday he drew on lightest blue a white feather
Afloat like a free happy sprite
His face had all the light
Of crimson delight...

Today she thought nearing the spot
Where pigeons usually leave white dots
That she would see him with another world
He was there with a canvas...
And inching towards the plate
She was amazed
To see a girl like her
Standing and staring fair
Smiling and in her white floral gown
She looked at the canvas and just frowned...
'when and how did you find me?'
She asked the old man with shaking hands...
The man shook his head and smiled
'don't know...your picture just happened to me...
Like the way flowers happen
And clouds before sailing to Byzantium stop sudden
Before me to plant dreams
Just like that...
You maid happened to me...'

Saying this the old man
With shaking hands
Brought out a canvas clean and clear
And stood before it
And took his flight again...
This time to the ancient Greece
He was  probably thinking then so much of Adonis...


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