“Portrait de Madonna; mère de mes fils, vendredi soir” (Madonna portrait; mother of my sons, Friday night)

After some ongoing, sad-eyed cajoling
you agreed to a Friday night date night
not of your choosing or comprehension
posing for nervous artist and sketch pad

you acquiesced to your best black pumps,
resolute: no clenching of rose in teeth –
concession gladly made by your love-struck
middle-aged, middle-class, modicum talent

Renoir with shaky charcoal pencil, prop
linen pad and still skeptical, self-consciously
reclining, propped-on-solitary-elbow model
in the candle-lit tableau before me surpasses

that of my very imaginative faux-artist’s
mind’s eye, having seen you as I have this way
a thousand times…but never quite like this

You are Louvre worthy; a study in pure form
glowing alabaster in flickering votive light minus
gilded frame, stay behind the velvet rope policy
shaky charcoal pencil strokes begin to quiver

across gray newsprint as this erotic charade
plays itself out, much as my artistic talent did
many years before the twenty I have known you
yet you graciously allow me this opportunity;

me – sans beret, palette; you, lacking not shoes
and all I can put on canvas is a stick figure
devoid of any of your revealing, inviting contours,
leaving all to the imagination, nothing to chance

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About poetluckerate

I am a poet, writer and teacher who moved from Minnesota to New Orleans in 2008 to help rebuild the worst public school system in America. It is a huge challenge to say the least. Writing - in many different forms and ways - has saved me untold thousands in therapy bills throughout the years. Reading my writings may do either the same - or just the opposite - for you. Read at your own risk, as I do not offer writer malpractice insurance. ;-{) I hope you enjoy what you read here.
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