The Creature Grief

He makes you write
your dead friend’s name on the grocery list.
You know him
by his sticky little tentacles
treacle slipping from his lips
as he offers an embrace and one by one
six thin arms grip you and not hands
but suction cups palpate your body as if
marking property. He claims you in sun
though he prefers rainy days when water fills
downspouts without restraint.
He is cloud and traffic light
and pain-killer aisle at Rite-Aid
as he moves smoothly through your neighborhood.
He sips coffee on a park bench
or behind the register at the coffee shop he demands
all your cash. He is bigger than you
will ever be and sits on you when he wants
his plump rump against your chest
your lungs struggling to breathe.