More Than Charlie Would Do Poem by Terry Collett

You suppose
that is what he meant
when he left last night
that he couldn't
leave his wife for you,
what with her health
being as it was,
and her nerves being such
that he couldn't
leave her just now.

You inhale
on the cigarette,
look at the man
at a nearby table,
at his wife
(or so you assume)
with her hair done so and so,
and thick red lipstick,
like your mother
used to have,
coated on her
rather thin lips.

Charlie said he couldn't
leave his wife,
although he had said
he would once, would
have left her half dead
to be with you,
but not now,
not at this moment
in time it seems.

You exhale the smoke
into the air about you.

The woman at the table nearby
yaks to her husband.

He looks past her
and at you;
his eyes
drinking you in,
his lips parted slightly
as he prepares
to drink his coffee.

Charlie was all for it
at one time,
and in bed last night,
after having made love
for the second time,
he lay back and said
he couldn't leave
his sick wife for you,
and said it in those
wormy words of his.

The man at the nearby table
smiles at you.

His wife yaks on,
unaware her husband
has almost undressed you
and is about to
have it off with you
on the table
in front of you,
which you muse,
at the moment,
is more than
Charlie would do.