i hide in the closet
as it vibrates with Beatles tunes
& dirty dancing
& no music newer than the eighties
all kinds of toys, holiday decorations,
& bottles & sprays
have been shoved
into this gothic monster closet
outside of which Sister Mary Rose
in a withered suit
stands too close to the door,
repeating, who’s in charge?
& where’s the dessert?
balloon pops make me jumpy
& i do think
of visiting my one friend
who died:
i would like to be able to watch
her PowerPoint shrine
nestled near the lunch buffet
knock knock
it’s my other friend
the childhood friend i forgot
she slowly opens the door
her wrinkled face
almost as ruined as mine
come out, she says, smiling,
we’ll dance with the skeletons
Eileen Murphy lives near Tampa with her husband and three dogs, and she teaches literature/English at Polk State College. She’s recently published poetry in Tinderbox (nominated for a Pushcart Prize), Thirteen Myna Birds, Rogue Agent, and a number of other journals. She is a staff writer for Cultural Weekly magazine.