If it's too distinct, the drawing with brush,
light and dark sounds over the silent canvas,
no alizarin crimson, not even in the cheeks,
certainly no ancient lake against the modern tonality,
the Gray Line occupants may think of passing,
may want, or feel, there should be a small "wow",
but they'll catch themselves and turn the corner,
scanning their brochures, looking expectantly at a day
hard to pin down but holding some intuitive promise,
some satisfaction never really apparent
in fresh coats of enamel or caught in a swirl of neon.

It could as easily have been March as October,
longer days in the forecast instead of short, blocky dwarfs
enamored of darker wear than Panama hats or Easter bonnets,
but being more than what they had left behind,
the faded wood rails would be quaint,
the sparrows a brilliant gray-breasted brown
and the sun would be the same when it reappeared.