at rock bottom, looking for comfort;
one loosened upon me her furious craw
of indigestibles, another arrested me with guilt.
One, laser-eyed, hurled an ashtray
full of ashes flicked through a night of waiting-up,
while another re-enacted, in voices and postures,
a play to catch the conscience of the king.
If you’re sedentary, loyal as a dog. If you must
stay where you’re unwanted, a family man…
these Sisters will make a raging sibling of you,
and Brother with Sister, conceive Monsters
of Murphy that bring alive the broomstickand
hobby-horses of your cowboys-’n-indians.
It’ll take the nurse, the nanny and the marm,
those generals of the schoolyard theatre, to disarm
your horse-play. They’ll tell you that, however dressed,
sticks are not horses, hearts are not wood.
They’ll grumble that Murphy tied the blindfold on Love.
Attend to the broomsticks. Attend to each room.
The Sisters of Murphy will be visiting soon.
