Man In a Smock (Gustave Caillebotte), Sonnet #419

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My Human Disguise.

















My walking every day takes time and will.

The day itself demands all that I live

As my blue smock vanishes in the sky.

The path along the shore is an idyll

At times, a dream tale, but also a sieve

That sifts my musings into cold or dry.

The good right leg trues up the bad left hip,

Almost hides my limp’s slightly painful dip.

I’ve lived sore for more than six decades.

I follow an old woman — a widow,

By her weeds — until curiosity fades.

(Nothing so illusive as what I know.)

I walk past her with a cursory bow.

I can’t take more than is given by now.