BY THE BRIDGE.1962

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

A BOY AND GIRL IN 1962 OUTSIDE A CHURCH ON A FRIDAY NIGHT.

Yehudit stands
by the small bridge
that goes over
the stream
at the back
of the church.

There's a moon,
bright as a torch
in the sky,
a handful of stars
sprinkled above.

I come out
of the vestry door
after choir practice;
I see her there
and walk over to her.

What are you
doing here?
I say.

Waiting for you.

The others come out
of the vestry door
and walk on the path
around the church
to the front;
some look over,
but then walk on.

Why?
what's the matter?

You didn't look at me
in class today.

I did;
I couldn't help
but see you.

Not in the sense
of just seeing,
but in the look you gave.

What look I gave?

She looks away
into the distance;
into the dark fiends
and far off trees.

An indifferent look;
a look one gives
if one doesn't want
to see someone.

I rack my brains;
notice her jawline;
the wind-swept hair.

I always want to see you.

Didn't seem like it,
seemed as if
you were talking
to that Rollands boy
and not giving
the look
you used to give.

I can feel a sigh
coming on,
but hold it back.

You are imagining things;
I was talking to him
about some picture
in the art book.

What picture?

Mm mm...just a picture.

She looks at me;
her eyes all searching.

Trust him to get you
into such nonsense
as laughing at art pictures;
what was it?
Some nude painting?

Yes, some guy
called Renoir;
she looked a dish;
bit like you in fact.

Is that what you thought?
Why laugh, then?

Because he said
what if you were
to strip off now?
And what would
Mr P say?

She looks away
at the darkness again.

I'd never do that;
can't see why women do.

They’re models;
it's what they do;
show off
the female form
in all its beauty.

She turns around
and stares at me.

So men can lust
after them;
make rude comments
or suggestions?

Pretty much,
I say,
looking away,
seeing the gravestones
caught in moonlight.

Is that
how you see me?
Something to lust after?

Most of the names
on the gravestones
have eroded now,
just the odd name
or letter remaining.

No, not lust after,
love after;
want for being you.

You talk utter crap
some times Benny,
you utter such
puke of words.

I look at her;
there's phlegm
on her lower lip;
I am tempted
to wipe it off,
but don't;
I watch it hang there.

She wipes it off
with the back
of her hand.

I suppose a kiss
is out?

A car hooter goes.

Reverend M
is waiting for us
in the car,
she says.

No kiss?

She pushes past me,
along the path;
I follow her
taking note
of her lovely ass,
the sway of her,
the whole being of her.

In the car,
at the back,
we sit together,
in the darkness,
behind the vicar
and his wife,
and her lips kiss me,
hot kiss,
cold lips,
and her hand
grabs mine tight
and squeezes;
some kind of heaven;
outside hell freezes.


Submitted: December 12, 2014

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Comments

Bert Broomberg

You always manage to trigger those feelings of nostalgia; great poem. (There seem to be some letters missing in lines 4 and 6).

Sat, December 13th, 2014 3:28pm

Author
Reply

Thank you, Bert, I check it out.

Sun, December 14th, 2014 12:17am

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