Perched
on the scaffolding
outside my window,
the happy German painter
looked at me,
the self-conscious but
curious adolescent,
   hungry
to learn what stories he hid
beneath the cover
of a disarming smile.
 
Inside, I
   raised
the window and put on
Peaches and Herb
(“Reunited and it feels so good…”).
With eyes as eternal as stars, he stole
   glances
and took my breath away.
He seemed to know
I wanted him to
  know.

With slow
   touches
and turns, with
exquisite rhythm,
he dipped
thick-bristled brush
   deep
into pail of innocence,
Latex White, and stroked
my life with colors
I’d never known before.

The last time our eyes met,
he smiled, lips slightly
   parted,
left hand pressed against
the window pane,
sole barrier between our
   bodies.
It didn’t matter,
because I felt myself open
to him and he entered
   into me.

His brush held stiff against
sudden gust of warm
spring breeze, he
   whispered
in his native tongue
soft phrase that reverberates
inside me
still. In a glorious moment of
   release
he cried out
“What a wonderful world!”

And I
   came
closer
to letting go,
taking hold of the
   wonder
of experience,
touching myself
in places
unreachable
in the physical world.