She leans over her easel
Blush-colored shawl lying listlessly over her chair back,
Tossed off in punishment for tangling in her hands
Gazing at me – her subject
With doe-like eyes,   
Selecting my beauty, flicking over flaws.
Time after time
My mind becomes lost in the folds of her gown
Angel-white, cascading in a silent rush to the floor.
But I must still my eyes
Must shush my fidgeting,
So I gaze intently at the window crack.
But the couple beyond
On the promenade are distracting,
Moving about,
Leaning towards one another to tell a comic story.
Lingering, on their way to a party no doubt
With those gloves and double-breasted jackets.
Then She clears her throat
Looks at me with those doe-eyes,
A silent reprimand,
And I know I must still myself before I too
Am tossed cross the chair back.