By Carla Buckley
Tea with Dee is never what it seems.
Through her words, my smile it greatly beams.
We meet, for a natter, she proposes;
Behind it, my thoughts, not butterflies and roses.
Why do I still come? I ask myself.
Non stop, all she talks about is her self.
I interrupt; I had an opinion on Emmerdale.
She’s moved on, shows me her savings in the Debenhams sale!
The shopping spree bargains are pulled out of her bag,
Designer coat, then purposely she drops keys for a Jag.
Talks loudly about little Billy, the new car and Husband Ed,
Never once asking how I’ve been instead.
I open my mouth as she is now silent.
As my words spill out she has now bent
Down, distracted shining her shoes;
I explain to her, how I’m suffering the blues.
Oh, damn, my new shoe I’ve scuffed off the bow.
I tell her I’m no longer living with Joe.
Some new ones, she tells me she must buy.
I tell her, my mother died, I can but try.
Up she comes, cursing at her ruined heel,
It’s a catastrophe, my best shoes, it can’t be real.
Down her neck she threw back her drink,
Storms off she’s gone before I can blink.
It would’ve been nice to talk about me this time;
I say as I weep, this moment all mine.
To gather my thoughts and drink my tea,
And decide that I will, never again, have tea with Dee.
Carla Kovach - Author 