NOT WANTING TO FORGET,

A MAN BRINGS A WOMAN HOME.

The Modigliani print was on the wall

By the front door. Who’s she? Bridshaw’s

Dame asked, pointing at the print.

It’s a painting by Modigliani, Bridshaw said.

Is he a friend of yours? The dame asked.

Bridshaw pulled a face and said, No, he’s

Dead now. Shame, she replied, stroking

The print, her finger tracing the woman’s

Outline, her tongue hanging out of the side

Of her mouth in concentration. She’s a bit

On the thin side, the dame said, and I don’t

Like the black coat she’s wearing, like some

Darn widow. Bridshaw wanted to get the dame

In bed for sex; the Modigliani print was no

Big deal, he’d bought it in some art shop on

The high street from the guy with the Boston

Tones. Shame he’s dead, the dame said, he

Could have painted me; I would have made

A good model, more meat on me than that

Woman in black, thin as a pole. Bridshaw

Nodded his head, Sure, sure, but you’re too

Late, the guy’s dead, now can we move on,

Get a drink, hit the bed, have sex, and then

A cigarette. Sure, the dame said, moving away

From the Modigliani print, taking the image

 Of the woman with her, not wanting to forget.