Thighs stretch nylon, skin tops stockings,
as Betty bends for the Britvic orange.
Kenneth straightens his tie,
pulls out a tenner,
fingers his fly.
When you’re ready,
Betty love, pint of bitter,
and whatever you fancy,
Later, in a single room
above the Saloon,
he cops a handful
in a crumpled hankie.
Behind Kenneth’s eyelids,
Betty’s bottom rises.
Maria C. McCarthy doesn’t write poems and stories as often as she should. She was the winner of the Society of Authors’ Tom-Gallon Trust Award 2015, and has scarcely published a thing since then.
