Picasso’s Model

He watches me intently
as though drawing a vase.
I heat my iron once again,
cover the handle with cloth
and continue my labour.

He can’t paint the music
of my iron
as it hisses with the heat
or the movement
of my body
as I dance in my mind.

Once I shared his bed
and curled between these sheets
feeling his hands on my smooth
white breasts,
his body firm against mine
as we shared our passion
into the night.

Who lies in his studio now
or shares his bed?
I don’t ask.
I am just a poor woman.
and have nowhere else to go.

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