In Burbank’s streets, beneath a fading sky,
With Baedeker in hand, Bleinstein passes by,
His cigar smoke curls in lazy rings,
as memories drift of grander things.
He hums a tune, a fleeting strain,
love songs once sung by Prufrock’s pain,
measured in coffee spoons and muted dreams,
where nothing is quite what it seems.
A portrait of a Lady, poised and fine,
Stares out from a time-worn line—
her face is framed in shadow’s hue,
her elegance, timeless, still shines through.
The painter of the Portrait remains obscure,
A mystery wrapped in grace so pure,
Her talent—lost in a distant age,
Her name—confined by man’s stage.
There’s still more—girls of enamel—clean,
with hollow smiles and a moldable dream,
Their souls unchipped, yet cold as stone,
A figure made but never known.
In these fragments, worlds converge,
between the past and modern surge,
where fame lingers, and figures fade—
their echoes heard yet never played.
WoPoLi 
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