A kind of subculture a man of fine age
standing in front of the corner bar
with his acoustic guitar This moment
like a strobe-flash as I drove by
with kinetic action I parked
I must have resembled a cubist
walking towards the bar with camera in-hand
hoping for a familial harmony a greeting
enhancing an unchanged ambience a direct
language an impression Maybe
he'd play his guitar sing songs for me
as I photographed every surprising detail
of his timeless face like constructivistic
line structures or would he feel distant?
Does he already feel distant? From a distance
I squinted
through
vivid light
My eyes as "fixed"
as the gentleman's in
Gordon Parks's Portrait of the Harlem Story
our eyes all the same
my eyes spotted
a blank
space
now in front of the bar Disappointment
Where had he gone? Entertaining angels?
or angels entertaining me?
Was he a mere Metaphor for Life itself? Many harmonies
restricted by an ever-changing body mass experience
the recycling of shadows stretched to exaggerated forms
This man, following me in my dreams
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