Prisoner of Disguise
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)
Copyright © Kurt Philip Behm | Year Posted 2019
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