Milka wanted Benedict
to take her across
old Tom Dubbin’s bed,
(the old boy was down stairs

in the lounge
waiting for death);
she’d put aside
her mop and bucket,

unbuttoned
her light blue
overalls,
but Benedict

had refused,
said it wasn’t
the time or place.  
But still she lay,

her blouse undone,
her skirt hitched up,
pouting her lips.
They won’t miss you

for a short while,
she said, besides
who will know?
Benedict tidied

the sink, washed
away the spit
from the old boy’s mug,
straightened the towels.

I could always scream
and say you wanted
to take me here,
she said.

He pulled back
the yellow curtains,
opened up
the windows.

For everything
there’s a season,
he said,
this is not it.

What if I say
you pushed me
on the bed?
she said.

They know you,
Benedict said,
they think you’re a
***** anyway;

they know me,
know what I’m like
and will say, no way.
Milka got off the bed,

pulled down
her skirt
and buttoned up
her blouse,

tidied her
blonde hair.
One day you will,
she said,

one day.
Maybe, he said,
one day, yet in
his mind or in sleep

at night, he often had,
taken her,
as she called it,
across some

old boy’s bed,
but so far not
for real, just inside
his young man’s head.