<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=527924" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Not Wanting To Forget</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Modigliani print was on the wall <br>By the front door. Who’s she? Bridshaw’s <br>Dame asked, pointing at the print. <br>It’s a painting by Modigliani, Bridshaw said. <br>Is he a friend of yours? The dame asked. <br>Bridshaw pulled a face and said, No, he’s <br>Dead now. Shame, she replied, stroking <br>The print, her finger tracing the woman’s <br>Outline, her tongue hanging out of the side <br>Of her mouth in concentration. She’s a bit <br>On the thin side, the dame said, and I don’t <br>Like the black coat she’s wearing, like some <br>Darn widow. Bridshaw wanted to get the dame <br>In bed for sex; the Modigliani print was no <br>Big deal, he’d bought it in some art shop on <br>The high street from the guy with the Boston <br>Tones. Shame he’s dead, the dame said, he <br>Could have painted me; I would have made <br>A good model, more meat on me than that <br>Woman in black, thin as a pole. Bridshaw <br>Nodded his head, Sure, sure, but you’re too <br>Late, the guy’s dead, now can we move on, <br>Get a drink, hit the bed, have sex, and then <br>A cigarette. Sure, the dame said, moving away <br>From the Modigliani print, taking the image <br> Of the woman with her, not wanting to forget.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Terry+Collett">Terry Collett</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=527924" data-title="Not Wanting To Forget de Terry Collett" data-description="The Modigliani print was on the wall By the front door. Who’s she? Bridshaw’s Dame asked, pointing at the print. It’s a painting by Modigliani, Bridshaw said. Is he a friend of yours? The dame asked. Bridshaw pulled a face and said, No,..."></div> </div> </div>

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