He painted it as though Watteau had seen
The Myrtle Avenue El at twilight
Just after rain had glazed the wood to a sheen
So that the platform mirrored a burning sky.
On the platform’s glass he stands, a Harlequin,
At vanishing point: rails glazed by dying light
A gigantic lamppost threatens like a gibbet,
Night falling fast on buildings now exhibits
Surprising light that winks from the last few windows
Except for the single one of the Reader Advisor
Who is always home, you will never catch her dozing.
Has Harlequin consulted her? Is he wiser?
After putting his last question, is he closer?
Prepared to strum his mandolin, on fire,
He waits for Columbine on the next train.
But does he know there will never be a next train?
For the Myrtle avenue El, it is long gone
but the Reader Advisor is always home.
Frank is a 75-year-old retired Hematologist Oncologist who grew up in Brooklyn. He is an unpublished writer of poetry and fiction who hopes to be published before his demise.
The Ekphrastic Review
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