Might Be Better. Poem by Terry Collett

Mrs Milton became concerned
when Benedict slipped
and cut his wrist on the beach.
How did you do it? she asked,
fussing over him like an old hen.

Slipped on the pebbles on the steps,
he said. She looked at his wrist,
blood seeping, the handkerchief
he’d tied around it soaked red.
Best get you to the hospital,

she said. Her brother-in-law
drove them to the nearby
hospital and a nurse (some pretty
girl who oozed sexuality like a gently
squeezed lemon) washed and stitched

the wound up and bandaged it with
her gentle hands. Mrs Milton was
silent in the car back to the beach;
she stared out of the window, muted.
That night in bed, after an evening

of few words and cold stares, she said,
I saw the way you looked at that nurse,
taking in her figure, watching her hands
all over you, your eyes out on stoppers
each time she bent over you, her breasts

pushing against the cloth of her uniform,
reeking of some very cheap perfume.
Benedict laid there, his bandaged hand
over his chest and gazed at her.
She was nursing me, he said, that’s

her job. I was just looking at her working.
Mrs Milton, who was lying beside him
turned and stared. Doing her work?
She was almost molesting you; I saw her
with my own eyes, she said, spittle on

her lower lip. That’s ridiculous, he said,
she was just going about her nursing,
cleaning the wound, stitching me up,
bandaging the hand, that’s all. All?
she said, there was nothing all about

that girl, she’d have had you in that bed
working you off given the chance and if
I hadn’t been there, I dread to think
What the heck might have happened.
Benedict sat up on one elbow and frowned.

Are we talking about the same thing?
You were with me in the hospital while
a young nurse stitched up my hand; that is all.
I was there all right, she said, getting out
of bed and standing by the edge, I saw a

young bitch trying to get off with my man.
It ought not to be allowed to happen,
she said, hands on her hips, her faded
blue night dress failing to hold in her
40 year old breasts. He sat up, shook

his head. I’m not surprised your husband
walked out on you, Benedict said. He didn’t,
I kicked him out, she said. I bet he was
glad to go, he said. She was silent and got
into bed and pulled the covers over her.

How’s your hand? she asked. Benedict
looked at his hand. Painful. Much? Stings
more. Maybe if I kiss it better it might be
better, she said, childlike. Might do, he said.
She kissed the bandaged hand gently.

Yes, feels better already, he said.
She switched off the light. There was
an owl far off. A movement of the bed.