The Inflection Point

Walking at a downtown pace

The streets, a kaleidiscope of noise

A language I don’t yet speak

Translating all they’ve seen

A piece of artwork

Slightly crooked,

Hangs throughout the landscape

A family of iron and steel

As high as the eye can see

It’s your face that

Hangs high in my gallery

Above the table

Which I never finished

Just like the streets I walk

And the mis en scene

of the artwork I bought