She means to read to me.
Her gaze is overbright, trained on visions
floating high behind my head
where only she can see.
I wince toward her smile. Surely she
can tell how much I wish she’d go away.
But no. She stays, ringing at my stoop,
her other finger in THE BOOK
ready to teach isms to my glowering look,
my bathrobe, my stockinged feet.
My dog will not stop barking
but Evangel doesn’t mind.
Now her finger finds Isaiah’s
Armageddon on the page,
an index plump and pink.
I nod but nothing sinks
unless its to the floor.
I wonder why I stand not standing for
what I believe about this
credo-peddling door to door.
How clean her fingernail, I think.