by smealek

The blind man–located in Alphabet City–

sits lonely, waiting for a visit.

When the visitor arrives, he is first greeted. 

A table awaits with his apple, ash tray, and decorated cup:

half-filled with Earl Grey tea. 

When the visitor arrives at his place, he 

sees an old fragile, black blind man. 

“How did you find this place?”, he asks. 

“An advert in a gallery place.”

“Oh, so they all say.” he says.

“Feel free to look around.” he implores. 

“But tell me, 

first, 

ehem, 

–he spits out his phlegm–

are you a charmer?

Describe yourself, as you see,

I am blind and an old, black man” he somberly says. 

Then he shares his art, says he used to be a poet

and an editor. 

In the next room, the guest is welcome to play at his piano. 

In the back room, the guest can walk down to his garden. 

In the lounging area, the guest can speak with the black poet. 

He enjoys his company. 

All he is left with is old age, 

and a personal gallery, which he shares

with his seldom company. 

He is interviewed: 

his place is used for holdings,

gatherings, and sharing.

Even though he is blind, he is perfect with his vision. 

He has his family. 

Even though they are strangers, he accepts it.

This black man needs no pity;

This black man needs envy.  

 

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