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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Susie stands
in the spare guest room,
chilled air,
bed made up,
furniture polished,
window open to refresh.

She walks to the bed
and sits on it,
feels the springiness,
no creaks of springs
or headboard like her bed
in the attic with Polly.

She smooths down
the bed covers
with the palm
of her hand;
she wishes her bed
was like this:
bouncy and comfortable;
shelooks out
towards the window,
trees and fields, birdsong,
not rooftops like her view
from the attic, not smoke
from chimneys.

She wishes Polly
was here with her,
sitting beside her,
better still
in the bed with her;
she hates sleeping alone
if Polly goes
to Master George’s room
when he returns home
from the Front;
what do you
do with him?
she asked Polly,
that's for me to know
and you to mind
your business,
Polly said last time
when he was home on leave.

She likes it
when Polly's there,
her body close,
her hands around
Polly's waist,
feeling her there;
if only Polly would do
as Susie'd like her to,
kiss lips or cheek;
but she daren't do it
in case Polly
belts her one
as she did that time
she touched her thigh.

A voice calls her;
the butler probably,
searching to see
where she was;
she gets off the bed
and stands
behind the door,
large eyed,
hands together;
the door opens
and Dudman looks
into the room;
where's that girl
gone now,
he says,
then walks off
along the passage,
calling her name.

She sighs,
opens the door
and walks off
the other way;
so goes another
dreary day.

Submitted: January 20, 2016

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