He Was a Model, and What a Model Was He

by Finny Deerfield

he agreed to be in my photo shoot
because he wanted to be a model
not seeing I was lonely, rich
and wanted access to his rooms
and him and his scotch

when I asked him to take his shirt off
his arm felt like rare mignon
and he looked faint and slightly ill
such a dreamboat and what lovely cocktail glasses

I kept calling him to meet for coffee
and look at the contact sheets
I drank cointreau I'd lifted from his cabinet
and retouched the sweat lines under his arms

I went each night
to the restaurant where he waitered
serving oil and bread
and where fueled by wine, I had
first approached him

his roommate first took messages
screened my calls
then finally only the machine would pick up
and eventually the phone just kept ringing
motherf*cking caller i.d. ruins everything

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