Patsy is wearing her white blouse
with the white-on-white embroidery,
over her skinny black pants.
We sit on her couch
and look at our iPads.
I show her my photos on Facebook.
She hands me my Christmas present
in a red envelope: a voucher
for a massage from Sarah.
'Write a poem for Sarah,' she says.
'Go on!' But I want to write a poem
for Patsy, who is kind to me.