to Lose a Friend
If we were blokes, the crime would be cancelled
with punch up and pint.
But in a Bluewater coffee shop
your PhD brain sinks too deep a shaft for my shallow poem.
The tribute of Marie Antoinette wedge wood figurine
misinterpreted not as a beauty but a bitch.
I’m a little bit offended grows like an aggressive cancer
in shoe shops as you examine brogues,
whilst I try to scratch out the evidence with blunt excuses.
Delivering you home, I feel a cold draft
as you slam the car door against me.
Months tallying your phone silence,
deterred from calling myself by the guard-dog husband.
Then at Christmas a Best wishes from the family.
Now, the merest jolt triggers memories of
high heels and hats for twin birthday treats,
a phone call at 8.30 stirs false hope,
fluffy ‘cardy’ on a clothes rail prompts Oh she
would like this.
Despite heart to hearts with a new friend,
and raucous nights out with another,
I find that there is no under-study for your friendship.
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be
pleased to hear them.