Breaking Up With Debbie
She has the 'screws'.
Her hips gripe,
her leg is 'playing up.’
I yell into her good ear.
"Nice Morning Freda!"
"Gout." She says,
still following a conversation in her head.
"I don't even drink!"
I know this is a stretch
for I am her secret `pusher'.
"I'm going out later, can I get you anything?"
She looks directly at me at last.
She has been studying the obituaries
in the local paper.
"Isn't it terrible?"
"Yes Freda it is."
We never discuss specifics,
agreeing tacitly
that most things are `terrible.’
"Just the usual"
I make a note to buy,
sliced white bread.
Laughing Cow cheese spreads (original flavor).
Bologna sausage (which she calls Baloney).
"Little Debbie" Frosted Fudge cakes
and a bottle of sweet sherry.
Her list of wants is not far from mine,
except for the sherry,
and I have recently broken up
with 'Little Debbie'.
At the supermarket, screws and gripes
jab my bones.
I limp down aisle three
ignoring a picture
of a smirking 'Little Debbie.’
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