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.
