The Sisters

The Sisters

The idiot sisters who live in my attic

are keeping me awake again and I want 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 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

and the dark one wants to give some away and 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

while they don fedoras and write mystery novels, pounding

away on their old Underwood. Anything will set them off.

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

something, get a restraining order so they would restrain themselves,

but I was told I can't because we're related. So we're in negotiation.

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

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