Mrs Ford's Sexual Young Man. Poem by Terry Collett

Mrs Ford and you
walked the streets of Hove
taking in the buildings
and architecture

hearing the seagulls
and sea's swirl
and tides' rush
smelling the sea salt

and candyfloss
in passing kid's hands
she talking about Eire
and maybe

going there one day
and you listening
to her words
wondering what

passersby thought
of you and her
and the age gap
and thinking

of the night before
the hotel room
the noisy bed
the second rate

furniture
threadbare carpets
and someone's
transistor radio

playing from a room
along the hall
and she lying
on the bed

waiting
you undressing
like some stripper
making her laugh

and the laughter
echoing around the walls
and that old painting
of some sea scene

and she calling you over
and into the bed
and you thinking
of what her husband

was doing or what
he'd say if he could see
this scene
she there

arms spread wide
smiling
pubic hair
dark and tight

and you getting ready
for the plunge
the radio pushing out
some Rolling Stones

your pecker
like some fisher's rod
and the seagulls swooped
and dived

and all thoughts
of the night before
fled and you and she
laughed as you ducked

your head
there by the beach
the hotels behind
looking out

to sea and sky
and ships moving
across
the horizon's scan

Mrs Ford and you
her sexual young man.