Lena sits and waits. The artist has
Wandered off, gone to the john or
To a bar or to have a quickie with
The local **** she doesn’t know.
She’s been here before, the same
Being left behind, the silent studio
Situation, smell of paint, oils and
Other artist’s tools and useful stuff.
She has modelled for others and
They’ve always been the same, being
Lost in another world, stinking of
Turpentine, paint, *** and all the rest.
She crosses her legs. Sniffs the air.
Wearing the green dress he wanted
Her to wear, her well brushed hair.
She recalls the artist’s antics the night
Before, the want of *** the fumbling
In the dark, the creaky bed, the banging
Away, all those images left in her head.
She uncrosses her legs. Other paintings
Lay around, some leaning against walls,
Some framed, some not, some sold,
Some recent, all modern, some old.
She wonders if she will be like these,
Left aside, used, done with, her oils dried,
Sitting waiting, her youth has died,
And she waits with the ticking of the
Clock, the moving hand, the hour glass
And the slow running out of life and sand.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
Lena sits and waits. The artist has
Wandered off, gone to the john or
To a bar or to have a quickie with
The local **** she doesn’t know.
She’s been here before, the same
Being left behind, the silent studio
Situation, smell of paint, oils and
Other artist’s tools and useful stuff.
She has modelled for others and
They’ve always been the same, being
Lost in another world, stinking of
Turpentine, paint, *** and all the rest.
She crosses her legs. Sniffs the air.
Wearing the green dress he wanted
Her to wear, her well brushed hair.
She recalls the artist’s antics the night
Before, the want of *** the fumbling
In the dark, the creaky bed, the banging
Away, all those images left in her head.
She uncrosses her legs. Other paintings
Lay around, some leaning against walls,
Some framed, some not, some sold,
Some recent, all modern, some old.
She wonders if she will be like these,
Left aside, used, done with, her oils dried,
Sitting waiting, her youth has died,
And she waits with the ticking of the
Clock, the moving hand, the hour glass
And the slow running out of life and sand.
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