A Friend, Unmet

I simply like the man though
I've never met him. Actually, I have
no idea who he is -- wait, that should
be past-tense -- nor where he lived
what he did, who his family might be.
But that this man was someone I
could have befriended seems assured
judging his character through his
portrait, the means by which I have
indirectly met him. Granted, one is
cautioned against judging a book by
its cover, but a portrait reveals much
and this man clearly was kind,
considerate and dependable, likely
highly intelligent as well. I never met
him, as how could I, for even at my
advanced age, he no longer lived
by the time I was born; a simple fact
revealed by his turn-of-the-19th-Century
portrait. Commissioned, no doubt, by
the corporate interests he represented.
And one wonders, if  his portrait was
considered appropriate to hang in a
boardroom as a sign of respect, why
was it later abandoned neglected,
the canvas torn and no longer framed
so that no one but me saw its value
reflecting its price, as a tribute of
note to a humble yet worldly and
worthy man, now long forgotten.