The Sisters

The idiot sisters who live in my attic

are keeping me awake again; I need some rest.

They dress themselves in lengths of fabric, pretend

they are in gowns, capes, boas, and tromp around

to some new play they’ve written.  In the midst of this

romance one of them will remember some old imagined slight

and throw herself down, wracked with sobs on the the threadbare

horsehair sofa, which reminds the others of the play,

causing the lot of them to shriek in excruciating delight.

To shut them up I bring them gifts of cupcakes, candies,

plates of cheeses, and bowls of potatoes, over which they coo

for a while.

Then the fair one wants to save some for later,

the dark one wants to give some away to the poor,

the redhead wants to eat it all now, and they’re into another awful row.

I even taught them to smoke, a quiet, peaceful hobby.

They prefer cherry cigars, puffing on them dramatically,

wearing their fedoras, pounding out mystery novels

on their old Underwood.

Anything will set them off.

I went downtown to get them evicted.  I thought I could sign

a restraining order so they would restrain themselves,

but I was told I can’t because we’re related.  Now we’re in negotiations.

I’ve hired a mediator.  On Tuesdays, when we all get together

I try to calm them down; they try to make me laugh.