Across the marketplace,
My sensibilities disarmed—
You recognized my face.
A fleeting glance and then it passed:
You looked away again,
And I returned unto that fast,
Customary disdain.
For I am famished, I am starved
To have your least affection;
As through the hubbub your glance carved
Its path I lost dejection.
A momentary lapse—and I
Briefly won my ambition,
Which steadfastly you yet deny:
To gain your recognition.
I will go to the marketplace,
Returning year on year—
Searching for that one touch of grace
So seldom to appear.
The rarity of it, dear heart,
So fiercely coveted,
I try to capture in my art
And will till I am dead.
Till then yet I must put away
The hopes for such a glance—
It was a fluke occurred today
And terrible mischance.
Amidst the hustle and the bluster—
So many bought and sold
Varieties of love—I muster
My courage, growing old.
Amidst the hubbub loneliness
Is all I have to feel,
But cutting through life's blessed mess
Your gaze made me feel real.
I will not die content, but should
It be today, tomorrow,
You let me feel a touch of good
Amidst a world of sorrow.