After the bath the drying of,
the white towel under the
arms, over arms and breasts,
between thighs, all over until
all dries or near so, and while
drying, she thinks of the long
afternoon spent, the meal, art
gallery and back to the hotel
for sex and talk and sex again.
She smiles, drying along her thigh,
here where he put his lips, kiss
planting, lips damp and wet, his
tongue lick lick, she laughs softly,
dries her buttocks, rubs and rubs,
and him reciting some short bawdy
poem, tapping his fingers along her
spine. She pauses the drying of, sits
and recalls the kisses set, the places
laid, the excitement caused and
raised and she in giggles near to
wetting and he laughing. After
the bathing, the rumination and
towelling all over, skin rubbed,
bath oils, powder, remembering
embraces, touching in places (what
would Mother have said?), and
he running finger along her nerves
and setting her juices to flow, then
have to leave, said he, have to go,
then gone, bed empty, space vacated,
scent left, odours lingering, still on
fire, unsatisfied desire. She sits and
puts down the towel, takes cigarette,
lights, inhales and thinks on and when
next and where, and if in truth, he’ll
come and (God be praised) ever be there.
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