Church Coffee Hour
An ashen-haired, crepe-faced little lady
with a painted teacup and pink cardigan
corners you by the bookshelf
and commences interrogation.
She squeezes your arm with one be-ringed claw.
Don't run. It's not polite.
College is going well.
I'm happy here.
I really like the new minister.
How are you?
Choke back the truth before you're smothered
in white pillows of pity.
Ignore the plasticky skim milk in your tea
and the numbing blandness of white lies
leaving your lips.