Poem: conversations

We talk about
                        everything –
            words rambling like briars over
fertile ground, reaching
                        for some common goal, some
            shared opinion. We
                        disagree, sometimes, but gently.
We agree, mostly, in a rush of same syllable synchrony,
        tripping over one another, tanglefooted.
                                    Bedtime comes too soon.
                                    So do phone bills.

Hey, hey, you know you want to, right? Right?

Soooooo... would anybody be interested in going to the sales in London with me on Boxing Day? I know it's not the best day since lots of people do things with their families but I'm basically all booked up the whole rest of Christmas week so it's when I'm going. By myself. All alooooooone.

You know you want to come with me and try on ridiculous things we will never buy and laugh at people with bad taste and find something amazing that turns out not to be on sale but you've already fallen in love with it so you cover your eyes at the till and hand over your card, right? Right?

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?