The Live-in -- Part 3 of 3
I lie - what wife mine’d been saying (our solidarity betraying)
Was in fact much more dismaying: “Why have you not come before?
From our lives you’ve been absented – with your coming, I’m contented.”
Would I could have this prevented: wife her mother fawning o’er,
She (my wife) that harpy-banshee-gorgon hybrid fawning o’er,
Who’d maltreated us before.
I, a welcoming tone feigning, asked her, “How long are you deigning
To be with us, oh thou, mother of the woman I adore?”
Pondering on her length of staying, (I for brevity was praying),
She gave hope to me when saying, “For a week or two – no more.”
‘Twas less than I had feared, but still to me ‘twas rather more
Than I had been hoping for.
She in first son’s room decanted (he to younger son’s supplanted –
Neither happy with their roommateship), good night bid we Lenore.
We the fortnight did long-suffer – no cohabiting was rougher,
(Wanted I betimes to snuff her) – then after ten days and four,
Make up her mind to stay with us did Lenore the Yuletide for…
Then for New Year’s Day and more.
“Wife,” said I, “Your mother’s evil! – Chase she could from Hell the devil!
Tested she’s for months our mettle, and through patience mine she wore!
Our world ere she came was placid, love life ours, once firm,’s now flaccid,
Every word she speaks is acid, and walls tremble to her snore!”
Our kids ne’er come home ‘til bedtime. Our friends visit us no more.
I’ve born much – I’ll bear no more!”
Wife with me then started pleading that her mom more time was needing,
Back-and-forth ours nowhere leading. My decision ‘bout Lenore:
“It is high time she departed.” Yelled wife, “Don’t be so cold-hearted!”
Spewed I, “Do not get me started.” Downhill went from there e’en more.
Ultimatum wife me giving: patient be with mother or
Pack your bags and find the door.
Well, Lenore (as is befitting this Poe-poem), she still is sitting
On the sofa from Ikea, choosing torture hers du jour,
Her Hadean eyes e’er seeming to maliciously be scheming.
I my family dearer deeming, did not find my way to door.
And ‘til daisies up she’s pushing or the hills is headed for,
I find peace will nevermore.
Copyright ©
Daniel Beus
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