Portable Demons

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I found the ghost of Dorothy Parkerin an old movie house in Times SquareI approached her with condolencesand slowly coerced her out of there

I walked her to a warm homeand fed her food a mother wouldI laid her in a fresh made bedand sat by her side while she slept

through broken dreamsshe spoke of carefree momentswith men she'd never metshe threw her arms in the airat the irony of dying all her lifeand still never having left

I held her in my shaky armsknowing that if she woke to find mecradling her like a babyshe'd cackle at our weaknessand push me bitterly away

I awoke to the ghost of Dorothy Parkereating Corn Flakes in my backyardthe morning paper ripped to shredsby her cutting retortsabout the hapless writing in print todayand I knewshe was here to stay

© Leggat Alexandra