Wild Child

Sometimes, times like these,
I find myself thinking of you.
You have been the last thing
on my mind, and suddenly,
you barge in, without so much
as a nod, or a ‘by your leave’...
brash, as ever, as always.

Kings Cross – you squeeze
through the closing doors,
sit down beside me; tote-bag
at your feet; those Rodin lips
and slender arms, as you roll up
your shirt-sleeves, undo your tie
and then, you sigh that sigh...

Like in that awful motel room...
the first time. ‘The Spider’s Web’,
I seem to recall, and I remember
raw passion throbbing through
every part of me – can feel
it still, even though it’s been,
at least, some twenty years.

The train pulls in to Kentish Town,
you get up to go – glance my way;
brush my leg with your foot, say,
“Excuse me, Miss. I’m so sorry.”
So was I...the mind plays tricks –
teaching all day. It’s not ‘you’
at all, you never were that genteel.

I smile, put on my specs, pretend
to read my book, your words spinning
round my head...that afternoon
after school when ‘A’ level Biology,
took on a whole new meaning.

“How about me teaching you, Miss?
Might not be the world’s best scholar,
but what I don’t know about sex,
ain’t worth the knowing.”

Oh, I loved you alright – in a way;
foolish, of course, but with you
I felt alive – a girl again. Thirty-one
seemed over the hill...in those days.
I was shattered, sure, but I was glad
it ended when it did; sans shame,
sans scandal, and that deep inside,
the wild child still remains.