The Model

 

The Model


She is no soft-soap Cinderella,
invites abound, she wades in wealth.
Kohled eyes cast far and wide,
she slinks the thin and hungry cat’s way.
She can be the red-hot hunter, breathing fire
or coolly chic, script-prepared and fine-tuned gazing.
She can be a vision in deep plum,
in a wistful, warming, dream of a dress
in the prettiest print that is paisley,
its precious patterns framed in silver
amidst leaves of russet-gold.

Amethysts adorn a neck that is pure grace,
real pearls dropping from beneath her tiny ears.
Jewels of the moodiest blue in her ruby skirts,
her shawls are shady purple, red and ochre
and ballet pumps of velvet glitter at her feet.
Effortless in cable knits or clumpy-booted
in a cool cowl neck, a bow-neck knit
or a blouse of the daintiest, delicate lace.

Today she is fine art of the purest kind,
with red-haired-ringlets falling on her face
but whether she is almost naked,
wears a top hat with tight jeans,
some pull-ons or a wedding gown.
she is always the fashion model.
who always acts and always twirls
who always stares
who always softly smiles.

Cait O’Connor