The issue was living in the house
standing between us,
hanging on the couch,
lying in our bed,
here to stay for at least a week.
We had not spoken since the issue came
with all its vintage luggage,
unpacking more and more old pain.
By every sound that entered from the street
there was relief, the bitter silence
broken for a moment. The issue groaned.
After some days its shape got rounder,
more compact giving room
for harsh politeness.
For conversation without fun.
For passing butter and deciding on a shopping list.
Finally an eyeful sadness and a hug
was all we used to chase the issue out.
We made it leave the bedroom first,
then down the stairs it went.
It only left some minor items
in the house to linger on.
Standing in the door,
the issue turned its head to start again
but we gave it the finger.