90th and Third, NYC
We almost missed him, although his face,
As blunt as a busy Picasso, all shifting
Planes, was wedged in a picture frame.
We almost missed him, the way one can stop
Seeing hunched-over bodies along the street
Or a favorite picture above the sofa
In the living room, so familiar it seems
Invisible, until it has drifted askew
Or been removed. "If only he had something
More contemporary," my companion offered.
The man in the frame extended his crushed
Paper coffee cup, fingers hugging its Greek
Pillars and statues, white and blue.
"Spare any change?" he asked. I brought
Forth a quarter. His eyes, brilliant, said
I am a masterpiece. This is where I live.