Grief pulls up a chair, uninvited,
drinks your Cadillac margarita,
eats your Godiva chocolate cheesecake.
She spills red wine
and unresolved anger
down the front of
your white Angora sweater.
She sticks you with
the tab and the tears.
Before you can smack her,
she runs out the door
telling everybody
in the restaurant
how much you wish
the cancer had taken you
instead of him.
You can’t even call her
a liar. Good Grief.
published in Write Under the Moon
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