Mothers Meeting (Poetry)

I am bored of all the things most women talk about —
like their kids, their husbands, lovers, or the fact
that they haven’t had a fuck in simply ages
It’s all so very yawnsville — tea and chat

It’s not that they’re not really pleasant people
for they’re mostly sociable from what I’ve seen
quite decent types and who am I to judge them?
and even thinking this makes me feel mean

But when the conversation turns to kitchens
the fitted sort and choosing handmade tiles
I rack my brain to come up with excuses
to leave them with their ‘come-again-soon’ smiles

I wish they wouldn’t welcome me so warmly
my upbringing so-insists I be polite
remembering at least to mind my manners
and keep my irritation out of sight

But I don’t fit in — I’m not the kind of person
who mixes well and easily pretends
they’re glad they came. Which might well be the reason
(so Mother said) I haven’t many friends