HENRI COMES LATE

A FERENCH MODEL AND HER MAN

Henri comes late.

You sit and wait.

 

The day unfolds

like an unknown map.

 

The ghosts of Paris

parade the streets,

 

but no sign of Henri

or sound of his key

 

in the lock. You hope

he will bring his camera

 

to capture you as he said.

The morning chills

 

your naked flesh

bringing goose bumps

 

upon your tainted skin.

Be my model Henri

 

suggested, be the one

to bring me my fame.

 

You posed and posed,

sat and stood, reclined

 

and lay, let him have

you as he wished for

 

black and white photographs

and sometimes his bed. 

 

Maybe he is frequenting

the cafes with his artist

 

friends, or drinking wine

with some other girl,

 

promising her the same

as you, selecting poses,

 

suggesting dates and times,

and suggestive poses.

 

Henri is late. The dull tick tock

of the room’s old clock.

Author's Note

ART BY WILLY RONIS