She walked me home, so I should thank her
She calls herself my angel and says I should pass on the deed.
Which part? I asked, silent.
And why are you in my house?
She tells me she escaped a civil war, and I cry on her shoulder—
Should she have been more civil, I think,
In telling a young girl to live off the scraps of the barrel of love,
To cleanse herself of grief like a poor thing, all alone, until she is wanted by somebody?
Shirleen tells me to wait until my grief has gone
Before I am able to love,
But says that I will carry it forever
Isn’t love in sickness and in health?
Am I only equal to a lover until my world falls apart?
I’m not as drunk as she keeps insisting that I am
She looks at me, and pities me,
And tells me not to laugh when I talk about my sister.
Shirleen invites me round for Sunday roast,
But then her boyfriend calls
And I don’t like the way he says my name.