When Relatives Visit - Dilly Sanborn-Marsh

On Sunday morning, I awoke, at ease

But foreign voices—relatives, no, please!—

Inquired “Delia up?” “Of course,” Dad said.

I drew my blanket overhead in dread.


The stairs did groan in sympathy, in pain

As I attempted sleep again in vain.

Too soon arrived they at my closed room door

And wondered should they venture farther more.


With bated breath they prodded my door ope

And crushed my dreams of freedom, e’ry hope;

They peered into the depths of my dark lair

At carcasse after carcasse of worn wear


And smelled the female teenager’s perfume.

They quaked at such ubiquitous room doom.

“Perhaps some bait would work?” one whispered soft.

And grandpa Fred procured fried eggs to waft.


One squeaked, “Good morning! Breakfast, sweetest child?”

I growl’d—how dare they treat me so—I’m wild!

“Perchance she’ll follow should we leave,” one tried.

They scampered off. Resigned to fate, I sighed.


I did descend, endured relentless hugs,

But smothered once too many, as though on drugs,

Exploded, sprinted for the door—alas—

Ensnared in kisses, taken by the masse.