In Mr Atkinson's Room Poem by Terry Collett

You saw Judy on the south wing
of the old folks nursing home
near to Mr Atkinson's room
carrying towels in her arms

I need to speak to you
you said
what about?
she asked

you playfully bundled her
into Bob Atkinson's room
(he was either
in the lounge

or out down town
hobbling along
for small items of shopping
or at the second-hand

book shop looking
for boy's annuals
of yesteryear
which he read

from cover to cover
before cutting out
the pictures
and sticking them

in albums)
what are you doing?
she said
what if Bob comes in?

he won't
he's out
you said
but what if he does?

she whispered
well unless I was rogering you
to kingdom come
I don't think he'd mind

you said
pressing her 5'5'' body
against the door
and looking into her

grey blue eyes
she gazed
into your eyes
and said

what do you need
to talk to me about?
I think I'm in love with you
you said

she sighed
that's the umpteen time
you've told me that
she said

she dropped the towels
on Bob's bed
and put her arms
around your waist

and drew you closer
you moved your left hand
around her back
and your right hand

on her buttocks
and said
that's because it's
umpteen times worse

or better depending
how you look at it
she kissed you on the lips
and you sensed

her tongue touch yours
her eyes closed
and you closed yours
the room becoming

a far away place
her perfume blending
into the air about you
the ticktock of Bob's

old clock on the bedside table
like some metronome
setting the pace
as if it was all part

of some song or some
deep aspect
of a Bruckner symphony
she pushed you away

and said
it's nearly break time
and people will wonder
why we're not there

and put one
and one together
ok
you said

removing your hand
from her butt
the warmth still there
her eyes still captured

in your inner self
thank you
for the Chagall postcard
I've put it on

my bedside table
along with that photo
you gave me of you
got to go

she said
and opened the door
and walked off
down the passage

you looked around
Bob's room
at the ticking clock
and the blue

candlewick cover
and the picture
of some boy
cut out of some

old annual
chasing a dog
over a field
and Judy's lips

and tongue
seemed still
to be there
in your mouth

and her hand enfolding
your waist and back
and Peter in the pants
going all slack.