Your children are fast asleep upstairs
By mcmanaman
- 1259 reads
You always complain that I keep things to myself
and I would love to tell you what's wrong
but it would be filling your outdoor swimming pool
with a bottle of water
that I keep refilling from your kitchen tap.
'We all have problems' you tell me.
Your chiropodist hasn't answered her phone all morning
'What can she be up to!' you say, offering me sugar.
I wear my smile like the jumper you bought me last Christmas
it feels awkward, makes me itch
but it seems to make you happy when I've got it on
unaware that as soon as I'm back home
it's slammed shut in the bottom drawer.
Sometimes I decide to confide
say something like 'Well, I'm worried about...'
but just then your chiropodist Skypes you
telling you she had run into a mutual friend,
Tobias, who worked with you at Broadcasting House
'How is he?' you ask, clasping your hands.
'Not good' the voice on your MacBook says
'His sister's dog is ill.'
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