DEAR VINCENT,
This city doesn't seem to change.
It's still dim coats and black shoes.
They call it silver but it's grey,
its streets, littered with artists and proud men,
and since it's hard to tell the two apart
it makes sense that one would leave
But you'd be pleased to know,
a man in dark brown pointed shoes,
a hat and turquoise scarf
is staring at your dead sunflowers
and saying, "They're full of life."
He's moving along with a group
of inquisitive young tourists
who've travelled quite a distance
to marvel at an obscure oxymoron--
A city, still as death famed for beauty, art and light.