The words flock together
  and stretch on the frame

Their meaning runs over
  still wet from the pain

The canvas is porous
  the easel maligned

The curtains blow outward
  faces calling in mime

The streets all a-chatter,
   it was Paris in spring

And striving to look busy
  the most important of things

Looking back at my window
  above the tannery so high

A shadow stares back
  —and I flee in disguise

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)