Saturday, February 23, 2013

The Grey Canvas

I left my camera and regretted it.  But I think I can paint a better picture.

The grey day was the melancholy canvas.  The black [cobblestone] brick path led east-west.  The puddles reflected the lamps in the watery mirrors.  The light poles reflected stretched to points of infinity and eternity into the watery sky. 

The tree branches like black spindles pressed into the grey sky.  It reminded me of Paris.  Not a Paris I have seen, but a scene of someone else.  Monet, perhaps; impressionist no doubt.  I stood there briefly, pausing to take in a glimpse of impressionist beauty made real.

They remain slaves who do not know what is beautiful in this world.
-The White Tiger

The guitarist’s strum filled the subway tunnel as I waited for the train. 

Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall, all you got to do is call…

Stand by me had us all singing. 

When the sky that we look upon should crumble and fall…

I made change for a tip. 

The B doesn’t run today, he said.

I would have stood there and listened all day if not for the tip, I smiled.  I counted my change and made my way on, back into the bowels of the subway tunnels.  I had no business being there, but sometimes wrong lines are priceless.  Or worth a dollar for the live jukebox that is the New York subway.

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