This week's Poetry Potluck #36, brought to mind a time gone by, when I used to go to Greenwich Village with my friends, and just hang out. We liked the art exhibits and one day an artist asked me to pose for him. For free..so people would stop, admire his work, and want a sketch.
I was about 15 at the time and it sounded like a good deal to me, because I got to keep the sketch.
The wind blew dust from the sidewalk
in little whirlpools,
picked up a smudge of blue
that flaked from the pastel crayon.
It lodged in the corner of my eye.
I squinted, as the artist
sketched my face one Sunday afternoon.
I sat for him in the shifting glare
and shadow of a chiaroscura day.
Placing a chair beside the Arch
in Washington Square,
I posed as the Little Dancer at rest.
The artist appraised the pose,
moved my hand to my chin.
A beret tilted over his windswept hair.
Tourists stopped, stared at me.
Sketched with hints of Degas,
a dot of chalk blue
appeared as a tear in my eye.
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