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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem