PORTRAIT IN BLACK & WHITE/ destination of the woman on a train /1942 Aprilruth rides the freight train past a few suns and crescent moons, mighty mountains are voiceless in the distance as she travels towards some unknown destination her lips long for just a sip of water. she attempts to focus only on memories from yesterdays that were colored benevolent and joyful a pocketful of mementoes lines her thin pockets: crumpled photos, a few coins, and a handkerchief embroidered by her aunt her lifetime starts to float into the air above, it becomes uncertain, vague and impenetrable. ruth rides, as a foreigner in her own country she senses those around her but doesn't dare examine the hundreds of companions who breathe the same soiled air. she has some clothing in a bag which stands at her side like a frightened advocate across from her sandwiched between a man and a woman stands a young child with hair of shiny black. the hair flows out from an endearing scarf down over her jacket of blue the train slows, begins to crawl then halts to attention simultaneously bodies rise to their feet and hobble together like marionettes, inarticulate limbs pour out of the railway wagon’s giant grin relived to feel rays of sun that scatters down skin once again now, she notices faces of the strangers from her train. but no eyes share a glance, no voice a sentence, a phrase or even a word. she tries to act normal there isn’t a need for words, no one wants to say something wrong she tightens her fist until it hurts shuts her eyes for several seconds, transports herself to some other place she repeats over and over a prayer from her childhood ruth opens her eyes once again the dirty road stares back at her the road understands, that she has no place in this portrait like the first chapter in some scantily written novel the road knows she isn’t a necessary character in this plot she stares across the yard. at the end of 600 yards a path left or right is sketched by traveler’s many under musty and large synthetic clouds she waits and listens for her number to be called PORTRAIT / the woman on Sansom Street, Philadelphiaas she walks deliberately down this cobblestone road notice two boney feet that give a kick cruel and brassy to every soundless soda can and sleeping paper trash that stands in her scheduled path she hates them nevertheless they always appear again the following day she knows they will be there once again like the faceless strangers who shove her shoulder’s coat, like august moon (thin and polished) that adjusts itself to guide this travel home and as moon fades on Samson Street a disenchanted sun gives birth to more & more apathetic debris cans with muddy profiles propaganda on print stained paper napkins of greasy hands coffee cups & lids of chewed plastic all surround her walk how they inaudibly multiple and she categorically has no control she hates them PORTRAIT / Ada Klein recalls her grandmotherlabeled boxes hold my days and nights within their soundless limbs with my right hand i feel this face wrapped in so sad. it proves my presence but there is no evidence of life before or within where once there was a mirror, opaque walls reflect no sentences no phrases no vowels all these flashbacks many and loud hum in minor key as they have forgotten how to sew words into strands wooden door slams fast a decade closed PORTRAIT / the road without birdsthe concrete door was far above
and what rests behind it is untouched by travelers or clouds it didn’t strike the travelers that oranges round or any fruit is not in view, that patches of grass didn't grow. They remain foreign from aromas of herbs and familiar flowers. then there was music, someone at practice on the same chord over & over. but it leaves no impression on their steady walk the travelers are unscathed by rhythms of clouds blue, the soar of friendly pigeons they are not comprehending that they live within a painting in the mind of some tender artist who has all control. and the windows remain closed and they don't seem to wonder what lies beyond the dusty road
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