Maundy Thursday. The church
Was packed. Full of incense.
Miss Dogberry sat at the back.
Mudrift watched her. He studied her.
The way her hair hung black and long.
Her broad bridged nose. Sat next to her.
She unaware. Priest proceeded with
The service. Miss Dogberry smelt Mudrift’s
Scent passions were stirred. She sniffed
Heavy her nose breathed deep. A bell
Was tolled. Candles were lit. Mudrift felt
Love or was it lust? Moved closer his thigh
Touched her thigh. Priest’s hands were
Raised host lifted high the Crucified the
Bloodied lamb. Miss Dogberry whispered
Softly do you sense it? Mudrift nodded
His loins stiffened. The last supper the Judas
Gone the Magdalene followed him out.
My place or yours? Mudrift muttered.
Mother’s at home Dogberry said no privacy.
Mudrift took her his hand in hers. I live alone
Mudrift muttered no disturbance. His room
Was warm smelt of old smoke and beds unmade.
He offered drinks and put on jazz with lights
Turned low. She undressed slow hand holding
Out each small item. Mudrift watched her
The nakedness revealed the plump body
The broad bridged nose the soft flesh lips
The melon breasts. Is that Stan Getz?
She asked Mudrift that baritone’s his
Saxophone. Mudrift nodded his mind on
Sex not saxophones or soft jazz tones.
He kissed her lips his arms embraced her
Ample flesh. She didn’t mind his lack of hair
On balding head or bearded face rubbing
Her chin. She wanted sex and saxophones
And him within. Maundy Thursday.
The Crucified above the bed upon a cross
Nailed hands out wide eyes looking down
Head to one side. Mudrift made love the
Magdalene Miss Dogberry gazed up above.
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