The Guitar Lesson

The pupil is twelve, attractive, withdrawn

In a midnight blue school uniform

Lips just a little too full for her face

Distant eyes full of space

In her posture no trace of coquette

No defiance

She fingers the frets looking forlorn

Crossing her legs where her tights have been torn

Starts as her mother comes into the room

And the afternoon grows still

And her mother feels chill

Shivers and buttons her coat

I gently correct the curve of her back

And open her book in the now-empty flat

At the classical piece I've had her prepare

And her arms are bare as she plays

And I draw back behind her ear

A few strands of hair gone astray

She shows me her bracelet, the lesson is done

I turn it around between finger and thumb

We sit face to face and it seems to me that

Her face is the face of a cat

And touching the place where her breasts will be

I press my hand flat

She comes into my lap, I turn her around

Her hands clasp my neck and her feet skim the ground

Her skirt travels up under my palm

But the pupil sits looking so calm

As if listening to the distant sound

Of a burglar alarm

What happened next it's hard to recall

The guitar lesson left no traces at all

Now, from afar, it seems to resemble

A strange composition in oil

Of a man, a guitar, and an innocent little girl