For Fiona
Donald presses a big, smelly forefinger to my lips;
I down drumsticks.
'Oh really?' I sneer, curling my lower lip.
'This ought to be good.
This ought to be real good.
Will it, Graham?' I'm swaggering now.
Will it be good?
Good like a clement Sunday?
Good like dismantling a grapefruit
and discovering a hidden listening device?
Good like I felt
looming over elderly mother with a velvet cushion
and smothering the life out of her stupid, sleeping
body... oh.' I trail off, abashed.
Graham is lost for words.
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