Not on my watch
December 23rd, your text
Sinky, Have you any spare Diazepam,
We both know the drugs meant to take
the edge off
Christmas day custodial sentence
where your life runtishly
contrasts a family fecund with
careers and kids.
I do have emergency reserve such
want to gift you few hours bliss,
But though you are 30s now, I shudder
at peddling drugs to an ex-pupil.
Suspicion too that you might have
spent months saving stash up
like a Christmas club for one last
cadged from shady mates miscellaneous
whose careless compound would
seism-shake your little body.
Then I flash-forward: your motherís
watercolour beauty blurred,
myself tortured with harpy guilt by
insistent inquest How did she get them?
I write erase, write erase, write
sweltering at image you mentally
pacing for my response.
Settle for a half-truth Sorry but
my bloody GP keeps me short.
Open your return text with a wince,
as you boast can throw words
like acid in a face. But , Same
here, bastards, not to worry,
I exhale; we are complicit now in our
dislike of med-mean DRS,
and have avoided any
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair
would be pleased to hear from you.