Cleaning up my contacts box
I click on those who’ve died
and those who’ve proved such bores I’ve nudged
them gradually aside –
those there’s no time to see again
now time is running out,
or who’ve done too well or not well-enough
or got God and gone devout –
those who drink too much as well as those
who don’t drink, or too little,
plus those whose promises have proved
burdensome or brittle –
then family with whom I’ve split
over a will or because
neither gave the other enough
love, support, applause . . .
But now the lengthy job is done
how come there's no one left?
Cadavers apart, I’ll put them back
for fear of being bereft
of any human contact since
is loneliness such fun?
Maybe it’s best to fake and find
good points in everyone
and play the friendship game with all
I’ve labelled dud or dull
before I risk being binned myself
should they start their own cull . . .