Calling Time
 
Our friendship cleaved for decades
over some nasty pranks now time-eroded.
She suddenly barges back into my life,
model-lean and with glamour that still gilds,
standing tall and straight as a sunflower,
a foot above me so I must look up to her.
 
Now used to chatter’s gentle battledore
between friends made when more mature.
I find her words are one-way traffic.
All her questions strictly rhetorical.
I wait for the window of an in-breath
to insert a thumbnail of my own life,
manage to squeeze in some opinions
which she shreds and barnstorms on.
 
As kids we sped out her back door straight
into wonderland, told not to come back until late.
Then we lived for Planet of the Apes,
Now she assumes we share the same tastes,
but where she adores Hemingway,
my preference is for The Great Gatsby.
And when I tell her that I hate Elvis
she reacts as if I have punched her in the face.
 
In turn, I wince as she dismisses benefits as a free pass
for single mums with litters of kids to get a house,
shake my head when she damns social homes as weeds
sprouting up amongst crops of local new builds.
Until finally she reflects in undertone
We have nothing now in common.
And as if in mutual agreement our meetings
dwindle to chance chats in the street.
  
Fiona Sinclair

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