A Party of Griefs

A party of Griefs is called a profound. 
I didn’t know there were multiple Griefs. 
I didn’t know they had parties. They seem to like the potato chips and the stale holiday sprinkles from the pantry, where Grief sleeps at night. 
There are seven Griefs, all about the same size and texture, clustered around my small dining room table. They were already here. It’s late. The stars are out. 
At first, I thought they were playing cards. Then again, it could be a monthly meeting. I don’t know what it really means anymore. 
If I were a superhero like in the movie, I’d dropkick the first one out the back door. Grab the other around its midsection, hoisting it out like the malevolent thing it can be, and pitching it over the fence. One by one I’d take them out, cleaning out my place so it’s nice again. 
At the table, they seem to be applauding. Maybe it is a meeting. Maybe they are voting for something. 
Instead I turn to my alter-ego and go quiet, just hoping that the profound won’t be too loud tonight, and I can finally get some sleep, watching the stars in my own eyes.