Four Portraits

There's Arnold

With his back to me

Wandering down through an ill-lit street

I'm curious

And would like to entreat

Is this inspiration or self-defeat?

And from the corner, his figure fades

And should I follow or retrograde?

There's Anton

With a furrowed brow

A crooked finger and non-plussed scowl

There's symmetry

He will soon endow

Crafting tone rows with his head faced down

If I take pleasure in melodies

Have I betrayed best tendencies?

Oh Alban

We part our hair the same

Posing next to a drawer and frame

At 23 and two years of age

Your work is tasteful, your life's urbane

As for the despots who bring you down

A century later, they're still around

And so I sit by the windowsill

Feeling sad, the questions linger still

I'm trying to decide if it's fake or real

I'm all alone

In a noisy throng

Nameless and ageless, all strung along

Nobody else can name this song

Mispronunciations and words spelled wrong

At times like these, I think I'm on my own

A new self-portrait of my own