Recreational Leave
They have come back. The next lot is in, Landing at the port. Soon they will be here, Some a little bit drunk, some a lot drunk, With their money, their condoms, their loud pink faces.
They will be here soon. I tidy up the place, Making the mattress nice, hanging the curtain Just in the right place, bringing the water So they can have a wash before it begins.
And afterwards too: they like to have a good wash Before and after. I put out a tray with two cups, Which some of them will fill with whisky or beer And some of them will not. I want to make them happy.
Some of them are happy already, but I hope not too happy.
I don't want a lot of noise, or slapped faces, With my baby here close by under the netting. On a good night, I can have maybe ten of them in With their money, their condoms, their loud pink faces, And no trouble at all, if they are not too happy With whisky or beer or whatever they want to do To show they are proper men and enjoying themselves.
Nobody wants any trouble. Anyway, I don't.
If they are happy, and pay, and go away, I shall be happy. My aunt will be happy too.
I put on my good dress, and wait for the sound Of their funny voices banging about outside, And try to guess what sort of a night it will be. Baby, be quiet. I am happy. I am fifteen. This is the way I live, on the edge of the port.
Anthony Thwaite
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