Emma Forrest Poet I do not know?

Four Nights

The first night I arrived on my own.
Streets were darkening, yet kept alive
by lights in café’s and couples
walking arm in arm.
The driver carried my forlorn bag
into a bright, over ornate foyer.
Preliminaries over, I checked into
a room that at first glance
was sultry to my eyes.
I sat on the bed and, taking
out my red not pad,
doodled lovers’ scribbles
and the vagaries of life.
I drank one glass of
heavy merlot, and as tiredness crept
I slept alone beneath covers
of tightly cocooned childhood.
Breakfast was solitary,
as families chattered.
I held my cup between two hands
indulging myself in wonderings.
He would arrive by lunchtime
and so I placed myself behind ferns
in an over-panelled side room.
It’s strange people watching,
their lives re-enacted
like a drawing room drama.
I watched, and he arrived
as nervously as I,
love on foreign soils
without familiarity of lies.
Beneath rose glow we made love,
then rose and explored,
tasted food, drank wine
Copious sensations as if
before we had only fasted.
W indulged in the pleasures
of opulent enjoyment
where we are strangers
and not conformed by rules.
The remaining nights
we looked into each other’s eyes
and on the fourth, I left
alone.
©EMG05

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