The Little Flower Girl

Down at the church the flower girl sits. legs innocent, apart.

I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.

Painted sister stopped beside. a word upon her saintly lip.

Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip.



I don't know where she might go when she runs home at night.

It's for the best: i wouldn't rest when i turned out the light.

No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream----

Just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.



I have touched that face a dozen times before. and i have let my pencil run.

Laid down washes on a foreign shore, under a hot and foreign sun.

My best sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.

Her chin i tilt, her breasts i lift. i mean no harm.



I close the door. she is no more until the next appointed hour.

Northeastern light push back the night: painted promises in store.

No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream----

Just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.



Down at the church my flower girl sits. legs innocent, apart.

I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.

My golden sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.

Her chin i tilt, her breasts i lift. i mean no harm.

I mean no harm. i mean