just came to visit

Companion
by Jo McDougall

When Grief came to visit,
she hung her skirts and jackets in my closet.
She claimed the only bath.

When I protested,
she assured me it would be
only for a little while.

Then she fell in love with the house,
repapered the rooms,
laid green carpet in the den.

She’s a good listener
and plays a mean game of Bridge.
But it’s been seven years.

Once, I ordered her outright to leave.
Days later
she came back, weeping.

I’d enjoyed my mornings,
coffee for one;
my solitary sunsets,
my Tolstoy and Moliere.

I asked her in.

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