Doomsday 1969 Poem by Terry Collett

Sophia lies on Mr A's bed;
I put away his clothes
in the chest of drawers.

We go for meal?
Sophia says
(she's Polish
and her English
is broken) ,
looking at me
as I go about
my tasks.

I'm busy,
ask someone else.

No, I want you
go meal with me,
she says,
her legs crossed
at the ankles,
her shoes on the floor
by the bed.

My me?
What have I done
to deserve this?
Anyway you shouldn't
be on the bed;
if Mr A comes in
and sees you
he'll get the wrong
impression,
I say,
looking at her
lying there.

What impression?
I lie here,
do nothing wrong,
she says,
unless you lie with me
and we have the sex?

Look, I've got to go;
I have other beds to make
and clothes to put away
and Mr G needs his bath.

She looks at me
pouting her lips.

You not want the sex?

No, not now,
not here.

I open the door to go
and hear Matron's voice
along the passageway
and close the door quick.

Get off the bed,
it's Matron,
I say to Sophia.

She looks at me.

So what?
I tell her
you want the sex,
she says.

You can't
it's not true,
now come off.

She reluctantly
gets off the bed
and slips on
her shoes;
her hand on my arm
to steady herself.

She looks at me.

You have meal
with me?

Yes, ok, yes,
but get on
with your cleaning.

She picks up her cloth
and begins to wash
the sink and taps,
and I go out the door
and close it behind me.

Matron is by the door
of the bathroom.

Where's the Polish girl?
She asks.

No idea,
I reply,
I think she was
downstairs earlier.

Matron pulls a face
and walks back down
the passageway,
her heels going clip-clop
ahead of me.

I sigh and look back
at Mr A's room
where I almost
met my doom.