Joseph Stanton

Nothing stirs on Seventh Avenue but light
and color, red so red and green so green,
notes that complement the bright
harmony the mind strives to see,
a long-shadowed Manhattan morning,
a subtly melodious 1930
of windows and doors that sing
a broad expanse of street,

but no one seems to be at home here
except the woman painted out in window four,
whose ghosted life returns now as pentimento,
as she suddenly throws open her window,          
and cries,
                 "Oh, come in, come in my dear.
It's been so long, and we have missed you so!"