Can'T Get There. Poem by Terry Collett

I know as soon
as I see Dalya
that she's in
a foul mood;
we're both heading
for the shower block
across the camp
walking past
tents and grass.

How'd you sleep?
I ask.

Don't ask.

I already have;
bad night?

She looks at me
moodily.

That bloody Yank girl;
if I could get away
with suffocating her
in her sleep, I would.

Bad as that, huh?

Yes, bad as that
and worse.

What happened?

She happened;
I have to share a tent
with her because
no one else will.

I'm sure
the Aussie guy would.

Well apart from him;
I am stuck with her.

We walk past
the camp café and bar;
it's full already.

What's the matter
with her?
she seems jovial enough.

She too darn jovial
and how many men
she's had
is no one's business
and I have to hear
the long line of names
and what not
as I'm trying to sleep
and it's:
and he was a serious thinker;
he had this apartment
in L.A and O boy
could he go it some...
and all that
kind of thing
and it makes me
want to put
the darn pillow
over her head
and keep it there
until she's silent.

We reach the shower block
and we wait outside.

You can always
share with me;
I'm sure the Aussie guy
won't mind;
he can go share
with Miss Yank 1974.

I want more sleep
not less,
she says,
smiling for the first time.

I can only offer.

I'll think about it
under a hot shower blast.

And she walks off
into the female door
and I walk to the male's.

I know she won't,
but the thought is there
reaching out
even if I
can't get there.