Room 9.

It was never meant to start like this a

seedy hotel – room number 9 that thread-

bare carpet – walls and shadows echoing

our guilt.

You had gripped my hand tighter as the landlady,

fag hanging from her lips, no teeth - had said

“ Mr & Mrs Jones I expect ?” and pointed to

our room.

Passion made us short of breath, yet somehow

the smell of dead dust mixed with the scent

of us added to our excitement.

You undressed hanging your clothes over the

back of that single chair the light from passing

traffic chinking lines of orange glow on

to your camisole – On/Off On/Off teasing me.

As you slipped under the cold covers our

skin seared together our first stolen moments

as you whispered “ Undress me Rog – undress

me”

Today I drive past our ‘Ritz’ and

remember that night me and Mrs Jones

made love amongst the stars and dust of

room number 9.

As today, somewhere else, you lay in the

arms of another, warm, and dust free.