Mrs Dryden
met Benedict
by the train station;
she’d told her husband

she was off
the weekend
seeing friends,
in London

take in a show,
which one
she didn’t know.  
Benedict saw her coming,

dressed to the nines,
hair done, new shoes
and coat and scarf,
to keep the cold out,

about her throat.
They boarded the train,
took seats together,
aware of others,

but none they knew.
They conversed,
held hands, kissed
now and then

when none was looking.
London was all bright lights
and noise and rush
and they booked a room

in a back street hotel
where they made love,
took a bath, and then went out.
The show was good.

The meal in the restaurant
was fine and they spent time
wandering the streets
looking in shop windows

on the back
to the cheap hotel.
She talked of her husband,
her kids, and how

her husband ******* girls
behind her back,
how he lied,
gave ******* talk,

imagined himself
some Casanova.
Benedict listened,
spoke of his art,

talked of books,
ideas of philosophy.
She put her hand
over his abdomen,

rubbed, rose higher
to his chest, then lower.
In the dark room,
neon lights

flashed off and on,
her face came
and went, her *******
captured coloured

in the flashing lights.
They made love again
and again. Outside was
a gun shot quite near.

Voices calling. Some
one laughed. After the ***
and conversation,
after putting coins

in the heater,
they bathed.