after "Untitled" by Ruza Bagaric*

The **** on canvas
sits by the window looking out,
bathed by the morning sun -
with all her youthful promise
forever preserved
in the luminous interplay of
of delicate chiaroscuro.

But I wonder if she’ll catch a chill
sitting as she is without a stitch.

    Could I fetch you a blanket, dear
    or a piping cup of Chamomile tea?

And just what brings me
to her sunlit room?
Am I her groom or lover,
a devoted patron of the arts
or just a passing stranger
come to borrow Ruza’s eyes.

So there she sits
with her raven tresses
collected in a tidy bun.
I wonder what she sees out there.
Slim chance I’ll ever know.