inside the tent
erect on the beach
in northwestern France
and how the old man could possibly be of any interest
to her.
he certainly had the eye
she certainly had the blond hair and breasts.
but the age difference didn't seem to make a difference.
he was a mesmerizing painter!
she must have been impressionable,
like impressionism or surrealism or cubism.
his little cube grew longer over time.
and he did have a proud Spanish chest.
he believed that he was the best.
she slept on his couch.
her nose sniffed his skin.
he didn't grin.
he didn't blush, but had a rose period.
she had a period, too,
but was never his wife.
his wife was Olga, a Russian but not a revolutionary,
and even when she danced,
she was fully clothed.
the young girl wasn't much of a dancer,
but she liked being nude.
the old man painted her in colors
over and over
on the canvas and on the floor
he continually wanted more
coming in the front and from the rear
with a smile or with a leer
never caring to know
if he was a crass lothario
so far from being satisfied,
and still I wonder about the young girl
who would never become his bride.
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