Wet Dreams 1972 Poem by Terry Collett

The restaurant in the hotel was busy,
waiters passed with trays
hands beneath
holding confidently,
faces stern
eyes ahead like
ancient sea captains
eyes on the horizon
for new lands.

Abela sat beside me;
her eyes following
the waiters like some heron
watching fish swim by.

We had rowed the night before,
after the piano recital
of Chopin and Debussy,
when she caught me
chatting up
the Croatian waitress.

Benny, she had said,
if you keep looking
and chatting up
that waitress,
I will ask
for a different room.

We had slept
in the same bed,
but inches apart;
no sex,
just lying there close,
but not so.

What's on the agenda today?
I asked.

Don't know,
she said.

Thought maybe
take a boat
to that small island
the guide
was talking about,
I said.

A waiter walked past;
her eyes followed him.

If you like,
she said,
turning to look at me,
I wanted to last night,
she added,
but you'd gone to sleep.

I thought you wanted
a different room?
I said.

That's just me
being moody
after you chatted up
that waitress,
Abela said.

Just being friendly,
I said.

Well don't,
Abela replied.

I pushed thoughts
of the waitress in bed
in wet dreams
out of my head.