The Pose

He looked at the painting,
his lover in the nude.
And as he stared
it always changed his mood.

Young and frail
but still a delight.
He looked at the painting
on every night.

He remembered the pose
as if yesterday,
provocative it was,
her eyes far away.

Were they remembering
the brush strokes used
or the feel of his hand
and how they fused

together as one
when the pose was over.
Now all that was left
was the painting,
not the lover.

poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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