Through Paris 1970

As you rode through Paris
in the packed coach

the radio played
Beethoven's Piano Concerto #5

and Mamie
sat beside you

her head to one side
sleeping

her mouth open
like some fish

out of water
her hands tucked

between her thighs
her blue skirt

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poem by Terry Collett
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Sun & Soup

You hold the spoon
over the tureen

watching the soup
drip back with a plop.

You know Francis
will enter soon,

and stand watching
over you, him being

master of the kitchen,
wondering if you had

dipped your finger
and tasted the soup

with your tongue
and say, I hope you

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poem by Terry Collett
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No Boy Scout.

Dick Morcraft said why
don’t you come to the

boy scouts tonight in the
church hall and learn how

to tie knots with ropes and
light fires with two sticks

and how to raise a tent and
in the summer we get to go

out in the wild countryside
and sleep under the night sky

and stars and canvas and sit
round the blazing campfire

singing songs together? and
you said all right and went

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poem by Terry Collett
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Only Way

The only way that Nichols
could have any control

over his wife or put a smile
on her face was to put on

a Gerry Mulligan record and
turn it up loud so that the

cool baritone saxophone of
Mulligan could work its wonders

and she would say Why he’s
so sexy and that sax of his it

drives me crazy and Nichols
knew he was second best to

that Mulligan guy and once
when he took her to a jazz

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poem by Terry Collett
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Blind To It

I see
she said

but she never saw
the way her beauty

stole your sleep
as if some thief

had stolen
a precious gem

or how her perfume
as she wafted by

invaded your mind
and heart

and tore them
both apart

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poem by Terry Collett
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Watching Her Sleep

He loves to watch her sleep.
Likes to hear her breathe in
And out; see her breasts rise
And fall like sleeping giants.

He likes how she exudes a
Sense of peacefulness as if
Angels touched her brow and
Breathed a deeper love somehow.

He loves how her red lips move
In silent conversation, how now
And then her tongue brushes her
Lower lip with moisture of saliva.

Should he wake her from deep sleep?
Ought he to kiss her lips and bring
Her from sleep’s warm hold? Should
He touch her limbs with lust to life?

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poem by Terry Collett
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Mistrust of Sex.

Ginny had a mistrust of sex,
It led into dark corners
she didn’t want to recall,
didn’t want to explore,
didn’t want to know.

Mother’d just died,
Father was too cut up
to notice the fingering and pokering
in shadowy places
out of sight of others.

Her husband tried,
years later,
in a gentle manner,
to open her up
to the joys of sex,
but she closed him up
and shut him down,
after kissing moved on

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poem by Terry Collett
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Hold Dear

Rolland didn’t like her
but he wasn’t in love
with her as you were
he never saw beyond

the skin and hair never
saw the inner beauty
the part that God or
some other deity put

there he’d sit with you
at the back of class in
school hands behind
his head acting like

Brando real cool and
you having her in your
sight remembering the
kisses and the feel of her

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poem by Terry Collett
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A Better Way

There’s a better way of digging
Than that, Uncle said, taking the
Spade from your hands and showing
You with a craftsman’s touch how
It should be done. You watched in
Wonder how with ease and skill he’d
Made the trench begin to shape far
More quickly than your frail work
Produced. He handed you back the
Spade and you noticed the calluses
That years of using spades and other
Workman’s tools had made. He took
Hold of your hand and turned it over,
Gazed intently and smiled and shook
His head. Such lily-white hands were
Made for pen not spade or hoe or rake,
He said, finish what’s started, lad, then
Return to your studies and pen instead.

poem by Terry Collett
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No Happy Endings

There are no happy endings,
Auntie said. Her words tasted
like bitter lemons in the mouth,
causing imaginary ulcers that

stung when ever words came out.
It was the way she said it, as if
she’d discovered some mystery
of the universe and hammered it

like brass. People meet, they have
kids and then after a while they die
and that’s it, she’d say, giving you a
look, clearing breakfast things away.

To your five year old ears, this seemed
like harsh; no mention of an afterlife
or heaven or all things will all right in
the end God will see to that; her words

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poem by Terry Collett
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