It's Too Late 1997. Poem by Terry Collett

Brian's gone to work;
Una and Nuala
sit at the kitchen table
looking at each other.

Thought he'd never leave,
Nuala says,
sorry about last night;
you must have heard us;
I didn't want it to happen,
but he wanted to,
and I can't let him get
suspicious or he'll
ask you to leave,
and then I don't know
what I'll do.

I pretended it was us,
Una says,
imagined it was you
and me making love.

Wish it was,
Nuala says,
she puts out a hand,
and touches
Una's arm.

I can't do this
for too long;
it's mucking me up
in the head
wanting you,
and having to
make love to him,
Nuala says.

I'll find some place else,
Una says,
it isn't going work here
I know,
me wanting you,
and you wanting me,
and Brian
in between us.

There is silence
for a few minutes.

Have we time?
Nuala asks,
do you want to?

Of course I do,
Una says.

They stand,
and kiss,
and Nuala takes Una's hand,
and they go to Una's room,
and undress,
and get into bed.

They kiss,
and hold,
and after a few minutes
of whispering,
they make love,
and as they do,
the front door opens,
and Brian says,
I forgot my bag.

Nuala and Una lie still,
and stare at the door,
and wait;
there's no way out,
it's too late.