Out here in the exact middle of the day, br This strange, gawky house has the expression br Of someone being stared at, someone holding br His breath underwater, hushed and expectant; br br This house is ashamed of itself, ashamed br Of its fantastic mansard rooftop br And its pseudo-Gothic porch, ashamed br of its shoulders and large, awkward hands. br br But the man behind the easel is relentless. br He is as brutal as sunlight, and believes br The house must have done something horrible br To the people who once lived here br br Because now it is so desperately empty, br It must have done something to the sky br Because the sky, too, is utterly vacant br And devoid of meaning. There are no br br Trees or shrubs anywhere--the house br Must have done something against the earth. br All that is present is a single pair of tracks br Straightening into the distance. No trains pass. br br Now the stranger returns to this place daily br Until the house begins to suspect br That the man, too, is desolate, desolate br And even ashamed. Soon the house starts br br To stare frankly at the man. And somehow br The empty white canvas slowly takes on br The expression of someone who is unnerved, br Someone holding his breath underwater. br br And then one day the man simply disappears. br He is a last afternoon shadow moving br Across the tracks, making its way br Through the vast, darkening fields. br br This man will paint other abandoned mansions, br And faded cafeteria windows, and poorly lettered br Storefronts on the edges of small towns. br Always they will have this same expression, br br The utterly naked look of someone br Being stared at, someone American and gawky. br Someone who is about to be left alone br Again, and can no longer stand it.