The phone call thin and sharp through April air

The phone call, thin and sharp, through April air.

"The Christmas card?" she asked. A flat affair.

No warmth. A question mark, a subtle jab.

I saw her then, precise, a silver cab

pulled up to nowhere. Her lacquered hand,

a perfect crimson, like some foreign land

I'd never touch.

She held her teacup just so,

a fragile thing, I always thought, 'You know

I hate that pattern.' But I'd never say.

She is the landscape now. Come what may.

A fixture in the room, polite and hard.

And I forgot the bloody thank-you card.