FALLING SOFT 1971

A BOY AND GIRL ON A PSYCHIATRIC WARD IN 1971

Up at dawn
I wander
to the lounge:
Yiska's there
standing by
the window,
curtains drawn,
looking out
at the snow.

The other
patients are
still asleep
or drugged up.

I walk up
behind her
hold her waist.

O it's you,
she utters,
thought it might
be Beatle
John Lennon.

He couldn't
make it he
asked me to
come instead,
I whisper.

Second best,
she replies,
couldn't sleep?

Not that much,
I reply,
are you down
for the old
ECT?

I'm told so,
she utters.

So am I,
I tell her.

I look out
at the snow
still falling,
kiss her neck.

She turns and
kisses me
on the lips.

How's your wrist?
I ask her.

Bloody sore,
she tells me.

Well you did
go cut it
twice over,
I utter.

You can't speak
so have you,
she replies.

She lights up
cigarettes
for us both,
and we go
and sit down
on the old
white sofa.

We could here,
but the nurse
might see us,
Yiska says,
just our luck
bit like the
ECT
room last time.

That was close,
I whisper,
be funny
in that room
today, us
almost in
the throws of
having sex
on one of
the narrow
beds in there.

Yiska smiles,
almost caught;
wonder what
she'd have said
if she had
caught us there.

Hard to think
but the look
on her face,
I tell her.

We sit there
smoking in
silence now,
snow falling
softly down
on the trees
and the ground.