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May 2018
There is traffic
on the street below
our hotel window.

You are lying
on the bed
and arms spread wide
in invitation.

The is no shade
on the one light
above the double bed
and the curtains
of shabby red
are drawn closed.

I undress slow
and uncertain.

I wonder what
your old man
must be thinking
you at some recital
of piano and violin
then to spend the night
with a friend.

I walk to the bed
and climb in
and you draw the covers
over us
and we snuggle down.

The recital was lame
and the pianist
some old dear
had knotted knuckles.

You said nothing
about your old man
nor what he thought
or cared.

You arranged me
into position
and set me off.

There was laughter
from the street below
from drunken revellers
on their way home
or to another bar
or club.

Game set and won
we lay on our backs
hearing nearby
a gentle hum.
Terry Collett
Written by
Terry Collett  72/M/England
   ---, Edmund black and Nat Lipstadt
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