Touch Of Hair. Poem by Terry Collett

I guess he won't.
Didn't last time
he came. Talked

for hours, but no sex,
talked of books
and ideas, but no sex

on the cards.
The floor is hard
beneath my back;

sunlight comes through
the windows like
a bright idea, but I am

not amused, he didn't
do a thing, no kiss
or loving words or sex,

just talk of Wittgenstein
and how it all went.
Mother's downstairs

preparing lunch. Father's
at work labouring with
his pen. Horace won't,

if he comes, didn't last
time, not so much as a kiss
or touch, feel of me

somewhere, a finger brush
through my hair. When he
comes, maybe I'll suggest

he does. Give hint of what
it is I want and how and where.
Just a kiss or hold or sex

or just a finger touch of hair.