It's Still Life

The Old Woman Arrives Fashionably Late to Her Exorcism

the ghost taps its foot.
“you were supposed to be here at midnight.”

the old woman checks her watch—
a thrift-store relic,
its hands permanently stuck at almost.

“traffic,” she lies.

the neighbour’s cat (her ride-or-die)
hisses at the holy water font,
then knocks it over. for fun.

the priest sighs. he’s read the script.
he knows how this ends:

the old woman offering the ghost
a cup of over-steeped chamomile
and a rant about the foxes
who keep jamming her compost bin.

“in the name of the father, the son—”
“hold on,” she interrupts,
digging through her robe pocket.
“i brought snacks.”

the exorcism stalls.

the ghost, now eating a stale biscuit,
admits it prefers her to the previous tenants—
less screaming. more sarcasm.

the cat, licking holy oil off its paws,
agrees with a burp.

by dawn, they’ve all signed a truce:
the ghost will haunt the bird feeder instead.
the priest keeps the biscuit tin.

the old woman goes back to bed,
where the real monsters
are the alarm clock,
and her own unfinished grocery list.