Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting

That Wednesday night
prayer meeting

with that old guy
with the glass eye

and Miss Trilde
who had that fixed smile

like the wind
had caught her

that way
and the other kids

there too
because their parents

thought it would give them
an idea of God

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poem by Terry Collett
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His Mother's Best Friend

O’Brien fancied his mother’s best friend,
Mrs O’Hara, she with the daughter
Who showed her panties to boys for sixpence.
How are you, Micheal? She asked, as she sat
With legs crossed in the kitchen between sips
Of milky sweet tea. I’m fine, he replied,
Studying her legs, trying to pursue
With his greedy eyes, the length of her thighs.
How old are you now? Her soft voice inquired.
Fourteen, he replied. He lifted his sight
To her weighty breasts, picturing his head
Wedged tightly between. Don’t sit their gawping,
Go get to your play, his plump mother said.
He took a last look, trying to capture
Mrs O’ Hara with her legs and breasts
And what lay beneath, for his nightly dreams
In his sweaty bed, be they wet or dry,
And gave her a smile and wink of his eye.

poem by Terry Collett
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In His Own Way

I feel I’m in heaven when
I hear that music, Father said,
Sitting in the chair in the garden,
Recovering from some old illness,
Hearing the Couperin organ masses
Playing through the open window
From your old black and red hi-fi
Record player. He was nearer to
Heaven than he thought, cancer
Was creeping through him like a
Silent snake. He didn’t go much on
Your Ornette Coleman’s alto runs
And tweaks of free jazz; what racket’s
That he’d say, trying to snooze in the
Afternoon sun, his companion Death
Lingering by, waiting for him in his
Own time to die. The garden’s empty
Now; his chair vacated, no more of
Couperin organ masses or Coleman’s
Free jazz playing out from an open

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poem by Terry Collett
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Don't know Where.

Don’t know where
she said

standing by the back gate
which backed

onto the woods
with the evening creeping in

and she having snuck out
of her house without

her mother seeing
looked quite nervous

and kept looking back
over her shoulder

as if her mother
may have followed

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poem by Terry Collett
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Love of Mr Chowdy

You loved to hug Mr Chowdy;
You liked it when his wet nose
Brushed your chin or his long
Tongue licked your ear. Don’t let
The darn mutt bark too much,
Father said, or he’ll have to go
And sleep in the yard out in the
Doghouse. You used to feed him
From scraps saved from meals,
Or pushed him small pieces under
The table out of sight of the others.
Some evenings you managed to
Sneak him into your room and let
Him lie in comfort on your bed;
Listening out in case the parents
Came and turfed him off into
The kitchen or out in the cold.
Some nights you could hear his
Heavy breathing across the way
Beside the window where you let

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poem by Terry Collett
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Granddad and Jean Harlow.

Granddad said he saw
Jean Harlow once
While making deliveries

to the studio lot
and there she was
he said

real hot
just there
and looking my way

and I was struck dumb
my lips stiffened
my eyes were glued

and as she walked by
there was that glint
of unhappiness

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poem by Terry Collett
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Miss Pinkie and Her Ship Of Love

Take me, Miss Pinkie says,
take me. A plump bundle
of pinkness, dyed hair, grey
at the roots, the blue eyes
whiskey soaked, the mouth

open, the naked skin, the full
moon flowing in. All aboard
who are coming aboard, she
says to the room, and he beside
her says, are you sure? now

of all times? yes, she says, lift
the anchor, set sail, take note
of the rough seas, the rise and
fall of the waves, and he looking
back sees moonlight on his naked

butt, the sound of Mahler's 6th
echoing from the other room,

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poem by Terry Collett
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Unmade Bed.

She always left
the bed unmade,

left the sheets and covers
pushed back,

let in some air,
let the smells of night

and making love depart.
And there was

the occasional
making of love,

the now and then
exchange of fluids,

the kisses on flesh,
the fingerings,

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poem by Terry Collett
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Not Like The Birds.

Mother said
there would be men

like that
and that they’d say

and do
those kinds of things

and looking back
over the months

he has behaved
as Mother predicted

right down
to the cheap flowers

and false promises
and the always

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poem by Terry Collett
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Watching Mother

Your mother is peeling apples
for the apple pie

and you stand watching her
and say can I have some peelings?

Sure she says
it’s probably the best part anyway

and you notice she has tears in her eyes
and wonder if the old man

has had a go at her again
like that time over the camera

and her saying jokingly
you look like some tourist

in upstate New York
and he thumped her one

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poem by Terry Collett
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