An Updated Version of a September 23, 2014 Posting
Velvet Nude
Elvis and Jesus
shared the velvet boom years—
you were something else,
not a portrait of anyone,
but a figure of simplicity:
nude, on blue satin,
in the classic recline,
gaze turned away,
a mystery that held us.
Not Magritte,
nor Picasso,
but the hand of a Japanese artist,
his name forgotten,
your image unforgettable.
You traveled with us,
from the China Sea
to a Fatima village two-flat,
always taking your place
at the center of our living.
Time moved on—
your allure unchanged,
yet your importance
slipped behind new attractions,
your black velvet dulled
by our borrowed maturity.
Packed away with relics,
you waited—
until memory,
gentler with age,
called you back.
Now you hang again,
framed in our gallery of years,
where we return and linger,
while neighbors
sneak a quiet glance.
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