of backbone; life has been heavy on you, yet
has not worn you down; the shoulders say,
I’m weathering it; the hair drawn back, and
tidy; time’s not for wasting on your hair;
your gaze, I guess, is straight ahead;
those lines around the corners tell us that;
you promised that you’d sit for him;
but when time’s up, you know exactly
then what’s next to do.. you’re living here,
you’re human; and we care…
and yet… and so… and yet…
I want to look into your eyes;
I want to know, what do you think of him,
the one who paints this poem about one
who may, may not, be you…
what do you think? Do you think this is you?
Does this surprise you, tell you
who you are, or who you might still be?
I’m greedy for the truth always –
Lady – wife, mother, aunt, good friend,
stranger from across the street,
paragraph in the novel of his life –
I’m holding back a world of love,
it only needs a glance from you..
tell me, why does his poem
only paint your sideview? Whose eyes were missing
when he wrote of you?