I go to bed exhausted and yet
After an hour I'm wide awake
Writhing with embarrassment
At some of the things I've said
And some of the thing I've done.
She was a statuesque figure,
Attractive but slightly faded,
A trend setter in her way,
The only female machinist
On the shop floor of a large
And very famous car maker.
Ten years older than me at
An inexperienced twenty one.
Somehow I stole her from
Her Gingerman after a huge
Memorably boozy night.
An amicable occasion really
Ending with a handshake
And I became her new
Much younger Gingerman,
And we left holding hands.
She owned a grey mini van
Which she would drive to
Secluded country places
Where we would climb into
The blanket floored back
And there she taught me
The joys of sex and
How to make love her way.
Knowing exactly what she wanted
She moulded me to her needs.
Hours later she would drop me,
Exhilarated but exhausted
Back to the Guardroom for
A short nights sleep
Followed by a bleary eyed day
Until we would meet again.
She was a free spirit,
Well before her time.
Don't forget me she said when,
Course successfully completed
The army moved me on
A different person, formed
During that hectic and eventful
Period, tired and wiser.
Would she find a new Gingerman
I wondered, slipping back into
A more conventional Army life.
I could have kept in touch,
Even seen her when i returned
Battered and bruised after
My losing battle with authority.
Too shattered by that experience
And, for awhile lost and adrift,
I didn't have the confidence or,
To be truthful, the desire.
Years later I still think of her,
Wonder did she ever settle down
Or continue in her own unique style
Finally settling into middle and old age.
Or did she die at too young an age
Still screaming defiance to the world
(The Gingerman, a controversial, influential, and popular 1950's novel by Irish American writer J P Donleavy)
