My kidneys wrote me a letter:
they thanked me for all the tea,
and voiced their approval
of my much reduced
alcohol consumption,
though they did still enjoy
the occasional gin and tonic.

They weren’t quite so keen on
my twelve-hour winter sleepathons:
extended duvet days, which they said
made them feel dried out, sluggish
and dirty. They voiced their hope that
I never become a Jehovah’s witness.

They thanked me for shunning
The Atkins Diet, but mentioned that
they wouldn’t mind trying Vorderman’s detox,
or at least the latest antioxidant infused, dairy-free,
Tibetan snowberry juice with added flavonoids.
They seemed quite well read for kidneys.

I wondered, how did they look;
like identical twins? Or was one slightly bigger,
more dominant in a passive-aggressive
whiny campaigning way, whilst the other,
quiet-life loving kidney would happily acquiesce.
Were they ever as cartoon jolly as their smooth,
smiley kidney shape might imply?

Then I re-read the letter, and realised that
it was all about them; just a list of demands.
Not once did they ask about me;
they couldn’t care less how I was.
Who did they think they were?

I filled in my donor card
and stepped out blindly
into the centre of the road.