A Woman's Touch
A woman’s touch. Yet to
another woman applied,
towelling dry, older, hands
slightly more worn, eyeing
the young woman, secretly
wishing. The young woman,
naked except the pink bow
in brown hair, thinking of
something other, not sensing
anything of the woman drying,
the touch, the towel, is far
from her thoughts, maybe some
boyfriend and his recent deeds
or words or both. The bath
had been refreshing, the water
just right, the older woman
always has it so, the towel laid
out, the soap prepared, washing
the back, places she cannot reach.
The older woman seems to take
her time, drying each area of skin
with some daintiness, a delicate
touch, wanting more maybe or
nothing very much. The younger
woman, feeling dryer, more in
touch with self, thoughts ordered
into place, takes no notice of the
other woman’s rub of breasts or
under arms, no thought of hers at
all, no grace, no charms, the recent
boyfriend, he who made to her such
passionate entering and kissings,
she feels like a fatted calf, some well
stuff bird, pleased with her self, her
sense of need fulfilled, the pleasure
dome having been reached and done.
The older woman drying now the thighs
has no wish to end her task, no other love
or want, except what’s there before her eyes.
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Comments about this poem (A Woman Called by Terry Collett )
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