It's just knock-knock
a quick two taps then silence.
My feet pause on the landing, count
one, two, three
under my breath
my solicitor buffer
before my hand's on the doorknob
and the door is open
and regret floods in.
It's a delivery, I thought
some problematic company
I mean have you listened to the podcasts
read the exposés
the working conditions
the freezing warehouses
but we still buy
because what else are we going to do
except it's not a delivery.
No, it's Grief, standing on our porch
and he's brought his damn acoustic
brought his friend Tragedy too.
I invite him in
before I know what I'm doing
(or maybe I know exactly what I'm doing)
because he's so handsome, just so put together
like an American Justin Trudeau.
He gets to work, goes to work
chatting up my girl
while Tragedy offers me a beer
(from where? Did he bring those?)
tells me a story.
The story is sad and surprising
filled with twists and terror
overflowing with pathos and panic
and I'm nodding nodding
wanting more, more, more.
Behind me, the strings are out
and Grief is singing Wonderwall.
I want to hate him
for the intrusion
for the stupid song
for his fucking flawless hair
but I can't
his voice is golden
like an American Michael Bublé.
And before I know it
we're asking if they can stay
share our spinach & mozzarella gnocchi
because our Blue Apron serves four
and what else are we going to do.