We sat under different circumstances.
A temporary park-bench.
A permanent home.
He approached slowly, chewing tobacco over a sketchbook upon disfigured legs crossed over a wheelchair.
A painter in a previous life.
He asked to show me his portraits (flowers, mother, self)
and do my numerology (4, stability, fake birthday)
A Ukrainian soldier in a previous life.
He owned New York City in a previous life.
The Expressionist ripped out my portrait and handed it to me.
The paper was damp with Germany’s finest watercolors.
He signed the date in military time and reminded me to forget nothing.