I posed for a painter.
He couldn't pay me but a couple of crumbs.
He said my face was sweet and my eyes sinister.
His company was settling for a time
when I wanted to scream.
I deserted him.
He sold the painting of me and moved on.
I find myself
often
in a stance he should have painted
for the two of us.
Published in The Literary Burlesque- 1/4/11
No comments:
Post a Comment