Miss Cleves
(she dropped
the Mrs. when
her husband left)

stood by the doorframe
of the lounge,
dressed
in a flowery kimono,

which revealed more
than it concealed.
***** wants some milk,
she said.

Benedict looked around
at her from the sofa.
Percy will oblige
after his drink is drunk,

he said. Chopin’s
concerto no 2 oozed
from the hifi. He drained
his drink and followed her

into her bedroom.
Once Percy had obliged
and ***** been fed,
they lay abed.

She criticizing
his Marxism,
he her Scottish
conservatism;

she talked
of her husband’s betrayal
and ***
with air hostess

trollops,
Benedict half-listened
taking in
the ending

of the Chopin.
She talked of the poor
and the slums saying:
you can take

the poor out
of the slums,
but you can’t always take
the slums out

of the poor.
He raved
about the rich,
she scorned

the poor;
he talked revolution,
he pointed out Stalin
and Mao and the altars

of blood they brought.
Another drink? she asked.
He said yes
and she went off

to pour. He lay naked
on her bed wondering
what the priest would think
of him lying there

**** naked. He heard
the Chopin begin again;
she had thought of that.
Time to prepare, he thought,
once more to feed the cat.