SHE WAS A FRIEND OF MINE
She used to come around when she was feeling low
To tell me her problemos. Everyone needs somebody for that.
I’d put my old tobacco tin upon the table between us
I’d say, help yourself, darling. We’d have a cup of tea
And then she told me the things that troubled her deeply.
One of the bastards always seemed to be abusing her.
She never seemed to have the strength to say no.
She talked on and on, talking and crying so hard.
It always came in waves, in rivulets, then a real flood
Of deep hatred, wanting revenge, and squeezed out
Juices: the rind. I listened like I was meant. I said something
Now and again. Why do you put up with it, girl?
Or maybe: Sometimes you should look at the other side.
Mine was the sort of advice best left to the horoscopes.
But she was my special little thing, you know. I always hoped
She’d pull herself together. I tried to help her too.
In the end I was happy enough just to see her face.
She was such good company. I liked being trusted, I reckon,
But it was a bit like being a plastic bucket
She could pour out her tears in. Afterwards she gave me
One of those lovely smiles, and she went outside
To get on with her life. I was left with it all, slopping around
Inside me. But you soon forget. There’s always a
Next time, a next. Sometimes when she thought
She’d gone over the top, she left it flat I thought in case
I wanted something back, which I suppose I did.
Then she’d tap again on the pane. That was a nice surprise.
I’d make her a cup of tea, I’m that sort of a man.
I don’t want much. Some people might think I never
Cared. But they’d be wrong, they’d be wrong there.
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