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Not Wanting To Forget

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, he’s
Dead now. Shame, she replied, stroking
The print, her finger tracing the woman’s
Outline, her tongue hanging out of the side
Of her mouth in concentration. She’s a bit
On the thin side, the dame said, and I don’t
Like the black coat she’s wearing, like some
Darn widow. Bridshaw wanted to get the dame
In bed for sex; the Modigliani print was no
Big deal, he’d bought it in some art shop on
The high street from the guy with the Boston
Tones. Shame he’s dead, the dame said, he
Could have painted me; I would have made
A good model, more meat on me than that
Woman in black, thin as a pole. Bridshaw
Nodded his head, Sure, sure, but you’re too
Late, the guy’s dead, now can we move on,
Get a drink, hit the bed, have sex, and then
A cigarette. Sure, the dame said, moving away
From the Modigliani print, taking the image
Of the woman with her, not wanting to forget.

poem by Terry Collett
Added by Poetry Lover
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