Not Here…



We went out to the theatre

and saw something by Pinter.

My wife wanted us to go

since it was her kind of show.

A drink after and a bite to eat:

expensive time with the box-seat.


The babysitter wasn’t my idea

but I enjoy this girl sitting near

me, driving Clair home in my car.

Wife’s in bed; we might go far,

further than the wife’d know:

as far, as deep, as I desire to go.


Here where I can do without a care,

my fingers touch Clair’s downy hair.

I hear in my ear her submissive sigh

and my hand grips her tender thigh,

feeling towards her tight elastic band

till she halts my tremble-eager hand.


“Not here…” she whispers in my ear.

Beyond the wipers, I spy a lonely tear

from a heart-felt fear on a cold night.

Whither our love in the hot dawn light?

Run like old Hum and dear Lola Haze,

then rot in a cell for too many days?


Her breath comes expectant and steady,

the sweet girl near me is more than ready.

But what of me, I, with the most to lose?

I sit with a wheel and two paths to choose.

Have the innocent girl with wanton lust?

Or keep a score of years becoming dust?



Malek Montag

12th April, 2017



Picture Credit:


About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on
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