MILKA'S FEELING FINE 1964

We go in through the garage
to get to the back of the house,
past my father who's working
on a doll's house he is making,
he nods and smiles,
and we go in the back door
where my mother
is preparing dinner.

Ok if we go to my room
and listen to records?
I say.

Mum says it's all right,
and we go through
the passageway and up
the stairs to my room
and close the door.

It's a small room
with two single beds:
my brother's and mine.

He is out playing
with friends,
so we are alone.

Milka looks
around moodily.

Not much room
is there?
she says.

It's big enough.

For what?

Well nothing like that,
as you're on
and my brother could
come in at anytime,
I say.

She sits on my bed
and sighs.

What records
have you got then?
she says.

Elvis mainly.

Is that all?
she says,
laying back
on the bed
and staring
at the ceiling.

Some jazz records,
I say.

Lie here with me
she says
after you've put
an Elvis record on.

I put an Elvis LP on
the record player
and lie beside her.

Not much room
is there,
she moans.

It's a single bed like yours
and we have plenty
of room there,
I say.

She kisses me
and we snuggle up close
listening to Elvis;
my hand on her thigh
and her hand
on my hip.

Shame I'm on,
she says,
we might have had
a chance to do it.

I know it would be risky,
but say nothing,
kiss her lips,
hand on her arse,
holding close.

Elvis gets smoochy;
his voice filling the room.

She licks my ear,
tongues my tongue;
her hand moving
up my spine.

Would you like
some coffee or tea?
My mother calls up.

I say two teas please
and know Milka's
feeling fine.