Artless as L. S. Lowry
A Rembrandt darkness falls upon us, they
And me. I cannot see them now except
As figures draped in richest robes. The prey
Of time (called death) they’ve worn brocade and slept
In sand beneath the ground, each separate plot
Concealing satin silk of cushion plush,
Their coiffured hair distracting from the rot,
The long held makeup looking grimly lush.
My darkness comes from being dressed in light
Above their sealed up rooms so sunshine eyes
In Florida can’t see their dimness, bright
Going to Work by L. S. Lowry
Though once it was, beneath their small town skies.
..We live our operatic passions lobed
….With lace of frets no matter how we’re robed.