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“The Tattoo”
She pulled off her tight fitting tee shirt,
Revealing her slim inviting torso,
And flawless alabaster skin,
As she sat on the bench,
In tight jeans and a sports bra,
Wondering what to do next.
The tattoo artist,
Was a little taken back,
He hadn’t expected to see,
Such a beautiful form,
On a 35-year old woman.
He asked her to lie on her left side,
As he held up the 2-foot long sketch,
Next to her right side,
Where his work would soon rest.
He ran his hand along,
The warm skin of her right side,
Her skin tighten,
From his unannounced touch.
She felt embarrassed,
By her uncontrolled flinch,
And tried to say something,
To ease her tension.
But he didn’t see or hear her anymore,
His total concentration,
Was on that smooth canvas,
And the motorized hum,
Of his mechanical brush.
She could sense the needle getting closer,
As his left hand,
Came to rest on her side for support,
His right hand,
Gently taking the pulsing needle,
And letting it dance a pond her skin.
She didn’t flinch from the pain though,
She welcomed the sting of the needle,
Each and every puncture,
And deposit of ink,
Represented a change,
A milestone in her life.
She knew that was a bit,
Melodramatic,
But she felt lighter,
Unburdened,
With every rhythmic jab.
He had been tightly grasping his gear,
For over 2-hours,
Without saying a single word.
Totally enveloped by the world,
He was creating on her skin.
He took a moment to look over his work,
Maybe add a little bit more shading,
But it was done,
And he knew it.
A good artist knew the importance,
Of balance,
Between ink and natural color.
He cleaned up and wiped down the tattoo,
She slide off the bench,
And stood before the full length mirror.
“This is f-ing righteous” she said,
In a barely audible voice.
He just nodded,
And motioned for her,
To sit back down on the bench.
He took 2-pictures of her,
Before putting on the sterile covering.
He grabbed the photos off the printer,
As she slide back into,
That tight fitting tee shirt.
He tacked her picture,
Next to another one of his favorite works,
And hands her the other.
She felt a certain bond with him,
Something much deeper than,
Just 2-hours of pain and art.
She looked at him with misty eyes,
And just said “thanks”,
Then turned and left,
Without another word.
Today was somehow different,
She was different.
Tomorrow,
Both her and the day,
Would start out,
Brand new…
Tom Allen…1-20-2017…
She pulled off her tight fitting tee shirt,
Revealing her slim inviting torso,
And flawless alabaster skin,
As she sat on the bench,
In tight jeans and a sports bra,
Wondering what to do next.
The tattoo artist,
Was a little taken back,
He hadn’t expected to see,
Such a beautiful form,
On a 35-year old woman.
He asked her to lie on her left side,
As he held up the 2-foot long sketch,
Next to her right side,
Where his work would soon rest.
He ran his hand along,
The warm skin of her right side,
Her skin tighten,
From his unannounced touch.
She felt embarrassed,
By her uncontrolled flinch,
And tried to say something,
To ease her tension.
But he didn’t see or hear her anymore,
His total concentration,
Was on that smooth canvas,
And the motorized hum,
Of his mechanical brush.
She could sense the needle getting closer,
As his left hand,
Came to rest on her side for support,
His right hand,
Gently taking the pulsing needle,
And letting it dance a pond her skin.
She didn’t flinch from the pain though,
She welcomed the sting of the needle,
Each and every puncture,
And deposit of ink,
Represented a change,
A milestone in her life.
She knew that was a bit,
Melodramatic,
But she felt lighter,
Unburdened,
With every rhythmic jab.
He had been tightly grasping his gear,
For over 2-hours,
Without saying a single word.
Totally enveloped by the world,
He was creating on her skin.
He took a moment to look over his work,
Maybe add a little bit more shading,
But it was done,
And he knew it.
A good artist knew the importance,
Of balance,
Between ink and natural color.
He cleaned up and wiped down the tattoo,
She slide off the bench,
And stood before the full length mirror.
“This is f-ing righteous” she said,
In a barely audible voice.
He just nodded,
And motioned for her,
To sit back down on the bench.
He took 2-pictures of her,
Before putting on the sterile covering.
He grabbed the photos off the printer,
As she slide back into,
That tight fitting tee shirt.
He tacked her picture,
Next to another one of his favorite works,
And hands her the other.
She felt a certain bond with him,
Something much deeper than,
Just 2-hours of pain and art.
She looked at him with misty eyes,
And just said “thanks”,
Then turned and left,
Without another word.
Today was somehow different,
She was different.
Tomorrow,
Both her and the day,
Would start out,
Brand new…
Tom Allen…1-20-2017…