Loving North 1914 Poem by Terry Collett

He has left the room, and left
you lying on the bed, and it
had happened so unexpectedly,
and with him of all people, and
you lie there looking at the door,
as if expecting he would come
back, maybe forgotten something,
and as it comes to you what had
happened, and how he had been
there, and you had seen him, as
you had often seen him: polishing
your husband's car, making sure
it was as shiny as he could get it.

You stopped at the door watching
him, taking in his arms, and how
muscular they were, yet not brutish
as some men's were, just protective.

He turned and looked at you, and
seemed embarrassed, as if you had
caught him at something unlawful,
and he held the cloth in his hand,
and looked at the car, and asked if
you thought it was good enough,
and called you my lady. You wanted
him to call you by your first name.

Poor North, how shy he looked.

You said: call me by my first name;
he did, and you went to him by the
car, and something opened up in you,
and you brought him close to you,
and kissed him, and held him tightly.

The rest unfolded, almost logically,
as if it followed from the first premise
of the kiss. He has gone, and you lie
there with a fulfilled, yet unfulfilled sigh.