An older gentlemen, in the subway, with his electronic keyboard and musician marionettes. Dark olive face, elegant white hair, from somewhere in the Spanish-speaking world. He leans forward slightly, white shirt carefully ironed, two pens in the pocket, at an angle. A fixture it seems, even if peripatetic, positioned today between a pair of blasting back-lit advertising frames--on his right, the burning Q, open white letterform glowing against an orange-red field... The adamance of New York, as always, bigger, louder, getting there first. Whereas the professor (his title by choice, certainly) is almost quiet, a hold-over from the past, the world of chivalry, dignified as well--muy formal. One imagines the grandchildren, gathered round, as he plays for them a tune...
Each one of us, perhaps...
No comments:
Post a Comment