I'm there,
an old portrait hanging on the wall
in need of a good dusting--past worthy
of restoration
passers-by will now and then pause
(more then than now), and wonder what my
two grey eyes saw, what my folded hands held,
what words came from my pursed lips
then came you, all dozen years of you:
maybe you liked old oils; maybe you were bored;
but you stopped, you ate a plump pear
while gazing
you squinted to see the signature
of the one who created me, though somehow
you knew there was but one creator
who gifted all brushes
you read the brass plaque
which summed up my life--three names and
eight digits, the last four a score before you were born
then you closed your young eyes
because you knew mine were closed
despite the painting's vain attempt to keep them open
and you imagined you were asleep, waiting for a new sun,
or for another curious soul to stroll by
one who would take the time to look
and, like you, wonder, who I was, and why I was draped on this wall,
in this quiet hall, where you stood, pear in hand, finding color,
light, in my untold story