Man with Picture Frame

90th and Third, NYC We almost missed him, although his face, As blunt as a busy Picasso, all shifting Planes, was wedged in a picture frame. We almost missed him, the way one can stop Seeing hunched-over bodies along the street Or a favorite picture above the sofa In the living room, so familiar it seems Invisible, until it has drifted askew Or been removed.  "If only he had something More contemporary," my companion offered. The man in the frame extended his crushed Paper coffee cup, fingers hugging its Greek Pillars and statues, white and blue. "Spare any change?" he asked.  I brought Forth a quarter.  His eyes, brilliant, said I am a masterpiece.  This is where I live.