I met her in the corner
of a swanky London sauna,
the kind of place 
with smiles as fake
as taxidermied fauna.

She said her name was Lorna,
said that Hockney once had drawn her;
in black she’d sat
in dingy flat, 
her face cold as a mourner.

A buzz cut did adorn her
in the painting he had borne her.
Assistant John
just loved grade one,
so that’s how he had shorn her.