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Don't Take Lifts From Dames
Whose car
did you get out of?
Dolly asked.
Some dame
from the bedding department,
you replied.
She’s been bedding you
I suppose? Dolly said.
No, you replied,
she’s seven months pregnant.
So you got her pregnant huh?
Can’t keep your hands
to yourself can you.
I just got a lift home
by her that’s all.
You took off your coat
and went to the sitting room
and poured yourself a drink.
Dolly followed you in.
I found this name
in your pocket book.
A girl’s name.
You recognise it? Eh?
She showed you
the pocket book.
You read the name.
That’s just some dame
whose name I put down
who’s been shoplifting.
So you say.
For all I know
you’re having it off
with her too.
Maybe you’re having all
the dames at the store.
I’m a security guard
not a Casanova, you said.
She went off
out to the kitchen
muttering to herself.
You drained your drink
and poured another.
You could hear her
in the kitchen
slamming down
pots and pans
and cursing the air.
I don’t screw any dames
but you, you said.
You’re my Sweetie pie.
Dolly came back
to the door way
and stared at you.
You mean that?
Sure I do.
Every single word?
Every single word.
I’m your Sweetie pie?
Sure you are.
And you ain’t been sleeping
with no other woman?
No, of course I haven’t.
Never would.
Dolly’s glassy gaze softened.
She pushed back
her hair from her eyes.
Ok Sexy Boy
maybe I believe you.
Maybe you’re telling
me the truth.
Maybe I got you wrong.
She turned and went back
in the kitchen.
You sighed softly.
BUT IF YOU’RE LYING TO ME
I’ll POKE OUT YOUR EYES
she bellowed.
Out in the kitchen
Dolly banged around.
You emptied the glass.
A love was dying.
You could sense it
in your bones and
in the hollow sound.
poem
by
Terry Collett
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