Portable Demons

I found the ghost of Dorothy Parker
in an old movie house in Times Square
I approached her with condolences
and slowly coerced her out of there

I walked her to a warm home
and fed her food a mother would
I laid her in a fresh made bed
and sat by her side while she slept

through broken dreams
she spoke of carefree moments
with men she'd never met
she threw her arms in the air
at the irony of dying all her life
and still never having left

I held her in my shaky arms
knowing that if she woke to find me
cradling her like a baby
she'd cackle at our weakness
and push me bitterly away

I awoke to the ghost of Dorothy Parker
eating Corn Flakes in my backyard
the morning paper ripped to shreds
by her cutting retorts
about the hapless writing in print today
and I knew
she was here to stay