Pub chat and glass of red was all I asked.
Instead, I shrivelled, withered with her words:
her worthy work amongst the hoi polloi,
ice buckets flung, volunteering done,
her sponsored runs and selfless tax-free gifts,
community activities for kids,
networking with our local dignitaries -
on first names terms with priest, MP, GPs.
My reticent replies just spurred her on,
interpreted as guilt not tactfulness.
At home, once I’d unloaded, kicked the cat,
it hit me, with some smugness, that I too
had given of my time, had done my bit,
bestowed on her a right good listening-to.
If you have any comments on this poem, Ann Gibson would be
pleased to hear from you.