Grief occupies the temple of my body, 

writes my address on flower arrangements 

and flimsy sympathy cards. 

It flays skin from my meager defenses 

of stiff upper lip and rigid spine.  

Sorrow moves within my home,  

sets up a tent city of flapping prayer flags -- 

their motion buzzes in my weary ears. 

It’s singed scent scalds me 

in third degree scars.  

This unwelcome oppressor  

displaced lover and spouse, 

cannot be evicted, stays as long as it wants, 

props muddy boots on the sofa, 

demands a cold Guinness, and 

hogs the remote to watch the Steelers.  

Remorse sweeps with a wire broom 

abrading the varnish of memories. 

This visitor plants a tomb stone on the hearth 

and moves the flame to the killing field.  

Jackie knew, the last one standing in Camelot 

wins nothing but 

empty rooms.