The muse of nonfiction isn't speaking to me tonight. Or perhaps I just can't hear her with my ear a bit swollen from allergies. Ergo my offerings for you tonight are simple.
I didn't draw this picture---->
I posed for it, white gloves, earrings, lipstick and chocolate. My husband likes the way I look at chocolate, and he's been an artist longer than I have. I've posed for him for quite a few things, but rarely does he stick as close to reality as he did here.
It's a bit funny, looking at his work and seeing me. And things could get worse. I think I might do part time work as an artist's model. I've even heard of model shows, where a gallery shows several artists' works all based on one model. On one hand, a form of immortality-- on the other, trying to look people in the eye if there are nudes in the exhibit? Maybe not the path for me to take.
And now, a poem, to take your mind off *that* mental image.
Clouds rush through the sky
In a swirling, free-form dance.
Strobe lights and drum rolls
Play around the amphitheater.
The sky, celebrating carnivale,
Throws confetti to the ground