Henri comes late.
You sit and wait.

The day unfolds
like an unknown map.

The ghosts of Paris
parade the streets,

but no sign of Henri
or sound of his key

in the lock. You hope
he will bring his camera

to capture you as he said.
The morning chills

your naked flesh
bringing goose bumps

upon your tainted skin.
Be my model Henri

suggested, be the one
to bring me my fame.

You posed and posed,
sat and stood, reclined

and lay, let him have
you as he wished for

black and white photographs
and sometimes his bed.

Maybe he is frequenting
the cafes with his artist

friends, or drinking wine
with some other girl,

promising her the same
as you, selecting poses,

suggesting dates and times,
and suggestive poses.

Henri is late. The dull tick tock
of the room’s old clock.