You have me pinned, in vivid splodges of bold
upon your canvas centre stage.
I look happy – yet some would say, what false representation this is.
I sit straight backed, legs astride an old wooden chair.
You have given me roses in my hair
long tanned legs – only to stop; where the painting meets its end.
My old summer dress;
tantalizes curves I have never once possessed.
You always knew how to souk the narrative for its worth
your bill of sale, proposing me one afternoons sitting –
currency on trust.
Yet for many moons since; have we softened each others palette?
No malevolence, just an agreeable resident
sharing your once, masculine personal space.
Friends, enemies anyone who can – does…
calling you an exhibit.
I like that you know, your sexual worth.
How you cajole, that the epitome of my body is not
to be governed by what my clothes do not cover.
You, my teacher have taught me well.
They; well they can:
adorn their monotonous days, like some pleasure starved dry bones.
I prefer mine, with a river of infatuation, coursing its way through them.
Poppy October 10th 2013 ~xx~