I. Leo drew Mona daily, studying the
curve of her neck, the delicate
of her collarbone
And how her head seemed to weigh down her body, spine folded and creased
like the drawings he kept of her
in the corner by the dusty easel he used long ago.
II. Mona reaches to grab her bare right shoulder with a bare left hand.
Posture is puckered, but gentle.
She knows her muse is only but an ideal to him.
She is alone.
III. Leo buttons his smock and his lips
then his arm moves
around the toned paper the color of autumn, only leaving contours behind, those that are thin and feeble.
His eyes are on her form, hardly straying.
IV. She slips into her skirt— Bohemian—
and buttons her sweater—wool.
Before closing the
door behind her, she tucks her bag into the crook of her arm,
and she glances back,
to the pile of her thoughts, her essence that is collecting dust
by the easel Leo once used
before his own muse evaporated before and behind her eyes.