Benedict met Julie
(the druggie
and whatever
else she was)
circa 1967
at the foot
of Nelson's Column
in Trafalgar Square.

She was dressed
in a mini skirt,
tight top, her hair up.

He dressed in his red shirt,
pink slacks, black shoes,
smiled as he approached.

Never guess how many times
I've been chatted up
as a *****, she said,
since I've been
standing here.

Guess you
put them right,
he said.

Do I look
like a *****?
she asked.

No, of course not,
he said, taking in
her mini skirt,
the tight top,
the pressing out ****.

She sighed.
Anyway you're here,
where now? She asked.

The gallery? He said,
indicating the National
Portrait Gallery behind.

I need a drink, she said.
Are you allowed
with the medication
you're on?
Since when
did you become
my father? She said.

He looked at the people
round about, the pigeon feeders,
the meeting of lovers,
visitors from some
foreign shores,
middle class,  
up your *** bores.

Ok, he said, let's go
have that drink,
then take in a gallery
or cinema.

I feel a need
to make a hit,
she said.

They only let you
out of the hospital
because they think
you can be trusted,
he said.

Then they shouldn't
trust me should they,
she said.

But they do.
It's up to you,
but I'm not
sticking around
if you go back
down that alley,
he said. I said
I felt a need,
didn't say
I was going to,
she muttered.

She moved away
from the Column;
he followed, through
the Square, pass
the people and pigeons,
the kids and parents.

He gazed at her ***
as she moved ahead,
the sway of it,
the thighs, sans
stockings, her feet  
with sandals,
treading the ground.

She stopped at the edge
of the road; he stood
beside her, took her hand,
felt her warmth.

They found a bar
in Leicester Square.
Ordered drinks, sat down,
lit cigarettes, smoked.

Guess who I met
the other week?
He asked.

Who? she asked.
Charles Lloyd,
he said.

Who's he? she asked.
Jazz sax-player.
Met him outside
Dobell’s' record shop
in Charing Cross Road.

Is he famous? She asked.
Sure he is. I got him
to autograph my copy
of his latest LP,
Benedict said.

What did he say?
She asked.
Sure man he said
and scribbled on
the back cover.

She looked out
of the window;
took a long drag
of her cigarette.

He watched her profile,
the lips holding
the cigarette,
the puffing out
of smoke.
Thinking of her
in the hospital ward,
the white dressing gown,
the skippered feet,
that time they made love
in that small room
off the ward.

Another drink?
She said.
Sure, he said,
and ordered two more.

Some place inside her head
a wild wave of need
swept up the empty shore.