Abela sits
in the café
in the town square.
She's ordered coffee
from the waiter
with the dark moustache
who had given her
a smile
and his dark eyes
had explored her
as he moved away.
Benedict has a headache
and sleeps back
at the hotel.
They had had a row.
Words were said.
She recalls them
as she waits
for the coffee.
You were gawking at her?
I was merely looking.
You slavered
as she walked
by our table.
She wore
a strong perfume.
Benedict undressed.
Your eyes were out
like telescopes,
watching her
Yugoslavian ****
You imagine things;
I was thinking
of her black
waitress dress.
Abela undressed.
You were thinking
of what was beneath
the black dress.
I wasn't,
you imagine
these things,
you're jealous.
He put on
his pyjamas.
Abela stood
in her underwear
staring at him.
Me?
Jealous of her?
That ******
She's not a ******
she's a waitress
at the hotel.
Benedict climbed
into bed.
Abela put on
her nightdress.
Your tongue
was hanging out
as she passed
the table;
she almost
fell over it.
You should be
a column writer
for a gossipy magazine.
You should admit
your guilt.
You should
open your eyes.
Abela got into bed,
pulled up the cover,
turned over
with her back to him.
No *** then?
Not then or now.
She switched off
her side lamp
and he switched off
his side lamp.
Music played
from a bar nearby.
Voices laughed;
a girl screamed.
Abela's coffee comes,
brought by the waiter
with the dark moustache
and dark eyes.
His eyes seem
to undress her
as he walks away;
his black trousers
caressing
his fine behind.
She sips her coffee,
but he is there,
caressing her
in her mind.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
Abela sits
in the café
in the town square.
She's ordered coffee
from the waiter
with the dark moustache
who had given her
a smile
and his dark eyes
had explored her
as he moved away.
Benedict has a headache
and sleeps back
at the hotel.
They had had a row.
Words were said.
She recalls them
as she waits
for the coffee.
You were gawking at her?
I was merely looking.
You slavered
as she walked
by our table.
She wore
a strong perfume.
Benedict undressed.
Your eyes were out
like telescopes,
watching her
Yugoslavian ****
You imagine things;
I was thinking
of her black
waitress dress.
Abela undressed.
You were thinking
of what was beneath
the black dress.
I wasn't,
you imagine
these things,
you're jealous.
He put on
his pyjamas.
Abela stood
in her underwear
staring at him.
Me?
Jealous of her?
That ******
She's not a ******
she's a waitress
at the hotel.
Benedict climbed
into bed.
Abela put on
her nightdress.
Your tongue
was hanging out
as she passed
the table;
she almost
fell over it.
You should be
a column writer
for a gossipy magazine.
You should admit
your guilt.
You should
open your eyes.
Abela got into bed,
pulled up the cover,
turned over
with her back to him.
No *** then?
Not then or now.
She switched off
her side lamp
and he switched off
his side lamp.
Music played
from a bar nearby.
Voices laughed;
a girl screamed.
Abela's coffee comes,
brought by the waiter
with the dark moustache
and dark eyes.
His eyes seem
to undress her
as he walks away;
his black trousers
caressing
his fine behind.
She sips her coffee,
but he is there,
caressing her
in her mind.
ON A COUPLE ABROAD IN 1972.
Request permission to use this poem