Painting by Modigliani
Neat little house,
Pavement swept in front,
Clean net curtains.
At an open window, an old man
Elbows resting on the sill, chin in hands.
He watches without seeing, the world pass his door,
Blue eyes, bright and empty,
Seeking a reflection perhaps, to fill them.
Once whipcord wiry,
He is frail now, bones as brittle as the white hair
That flutters dry and thin in the breeze.
I wonder, is he watching for her,
A sign, a word, a white hand waving?
Does the light breeze carry the sound of her voice,
And does he listen for the ring of her familiar step?
From the great sadness that sits in his eyes,
Blue and empty as oceans,
His face, immobile as he sifts the city sounds,
I would say he watches and listens in vain.