Muse for a Nocturne

Sometimes he wondered how one hand could trace
the melancholy arches of the Pont Neuf, while
the other trilled, with clumsy
sweet embellishments, the bellyaching
sadness of a lone street singer
far from the motherland. By night,
on the insides of the lids of eyes
too weary, closing out the dull vainglory
of a grimy world, their masterpiece took shape,
a painted trade: her tattered rags
for the salon ladies’ taffetas—
adjusted, though, for dissonance’s sake.