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The pupil is twelve, attractive, withdrawn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