Eyelet, by Catherine Weiss
once i donned a white eyelet dress & rode the L train
to morgan or montrose, for to give an artist a hand job.
in exchange, he painted my portrait, oil on canvas.
i sat on his futon & drank his wine, considering his
industrial loft, his half-dozen roommates, his coveralls
dabbed in cream. the artist asked me to stay the night
& i considered that too, turning his offer in my unwashed
palms. a magpie muse with her silver coin. when the
paint was dry, i took myself & left. nestled his painting
in the trash bin, a decision both joyful & precise.