My portrait will not be painted.
It will be  d r a w n  on textured
Paper with pointed charcoal
Such as the royal gallery’s
Commissioned best are done.

I will pose in the corner of a
Small room surrounded by splotches
Of torn cardboard and still moist
Papier-mâché under my footstool,
The burlap pants causing me to sweat.

It’s hard to tell if aesthetics
Are as important as the glory
Of the gray poster board surface
On which my upper body will be
Displayed in intimate splendor.

When first I agreed to this stance,
He said it was an abstract piece,
The geometric patterns of my body
Reduced and distilled to shadows,
Light and feathery and seemly.

As I was unpretentious, if not a
Tad modest, I was not prepared for
Fame via framed exhibitions of me
In the buff, even though my upper
Reaches were of decent eye-appeal.

I wondered if my blushing cheeks
Would transfer well in black and
Grey, or rather would my figure
Take on a halo of light, in jagged
Doses down to the treasure trail?

Who knows what he meant by one
And another reference to art for art’s
Sake, as if I were really a mannequin
Without a soul, subject to the jeers
And jollies of a maddening crowd.

I wondered what the docents would
Say when pointing at me with pride,
Perhaps “there is truth in this drawing;
Notice the hint of red in his face, a
Sign of the artist’s transcendence.”

Somehow I didn’t think this gig
Would make me famous, but as I stood
There, at attention, I hoped for the
Esteem of the crowds, especially the
Novice art students-in-training.


© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016