Still Sitting

They say you are a genius, but you smell

Like the old well behind the sacristy;

None of the stories the other girls tell

Gave me cause to wonder if you’d harm me

So here I sit, as you slowly draw lines

That match the curves and angles of my face

Somehow, your antique eye seeks and divines

The smiling secret of my youthful grace

You do not look at me with groping lust

But as one might look at a lake or star

On the old machine of your hand, there’s rust

But the door of your mind must be ajar

You welcome me in, with my probing gaze

Centuries hence, it will others amaze