Not on my watch
December 23rd, your text sidles up,
Sinky, Have you any spare Diazepam, Mirtazapine?
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 meds,
want to gift you few hours bliss, escapism, numbness.
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 bender or
cadged from shady mates miscellaneous meds,
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 erase,
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 credit-often-offends awkwardness.

Fiona Sinclair

If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair  would be pleased to hear from you.