So she smiled, Darling,
and it was like she had
plaster cheeks:
her lips curved up
but the rest of her face
didn’t move.
And her eyesbrows
were an inch higher,
almost on top
of her forehead.
Said she’d been
at a spa all winter
if you believe that
line of crap
I have a swamp in
Florida with potential
that should interest you.
Well, I told her
she should stop lying:
we all know
she’s had work done —
it’s obvious.
She didn’t speak
to me until —
and she tried to
line up my friends;
well, they weren’t
taking sides,
but they stopped
speaking to her.
That all changed
a week ago:
she called to tell me
life is too short.
Wanted to make up.
Told me her husband
has stage three cancer.
Terminal.
Wonderful, isn’t it
how death
focuses the mind?
