photo by Beata Ratuszniak via Unsplash
All day he crouched, limbs folded tight as a disused easel, eyes on the cobbles, on scuffed work boots and tightly tied Oxfords with leather slick and shiny as glass.
I never saw him look up, never saw him sell a painting or the configuration of brightly coloured canvases change.
He’s gone but the canvases remain, peeled and paled, the gallery of an unknown, unknowable artist.
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