The Inspection - Fred Voss

Whenever a good-looking secretary walks down the aisle at

Goodstone Aircraft Company,

the machinists make a point of staring at her

from the moment they spot her.

They move around their machines

to keep her tits and ass and thighs

in view,

making sure that it is obvious

they are watching her.

They drift away from their machines,

sticking their necks out into the aisle

to keep her in view

until she is out the door of the building.

Then they let out with shrill whistles,

shaking their heads and hands

and going limp all over as if they were about to collapse,

making sure that everyone knows

how much their lustful minds sucked in

every inch of every curve on her body,

competing with each other

to see who

can stagger and whistle and maintain

their open-mouthed black-eyed look

the longest,

glancing about at each other

to take stock of the results.

Finally, when it is safe to quit whistling and moaning

tributes to her body,

they return to their machines,

reassured that they have once again passed

the test.

A Simple Story - Gwen Harwood

A visiting conductor

     when I was seventeen,

took me back to his hotel room

     to cover the music scene.

I'd written a composition.

     Would wonders never cease –

here was a real musician

     prepared to hold my piece.

He spread my score on the counterpane

     with classic casualness,

and put one hand on the manuscript

     and the other down my dress.

It was hot as hell in The Windsor.

     I said I'd like a drink.

We talked across gin and grapefruit,

     and I heard the ice go clink

as I gazed at the lofty forehead

     of one who led the band,

and guessed at the hoarded sorrows

     no wife could understand.

I dreamed of a soaring passion

     as an egg might dream of flight,

while he read my crude sonata.

     If he'd said, ‘That bar's not right,’

or, ‘Have you thought of a coda?’

     or, ‘Watch that first repeat,’

or, ‘Modulate to the dominant’

     he'd have had me at his feet.

But he shuffled it all together,

     and said, ‘That's lovely, dear,’

as he put it down on the washstand

     in a way that made it clear

that I was no composer.

     And being young and vain,

removed my lovely body

     from one who'd scorned my brain.

I swept off like Miss Virtue

     down dusty Roma Street,

and heard the goods trains whistle

     WHO? WHOOOOOO? in aching heat.