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.

6 responses »

  1. I say, Cynthia ! – this is AMAZING ! Only a poet would think of creating poetry about such a visitor, that’s what I say. But “her”|”she” ??? Downunder they only ever move about in pairs !!!

    • Oh yes, we have those pairs, too…usually young adult males, comely, well-dressed, with briefcases or “man bag” shoulder bags……although, a short time ago, when I first moved to my present home, there were two middle-aged ladies who came to “welcome” me and talk about God on my doorstep. They wanted to come in, but of course I didn’t let them…”Do you believe in God?” (They)….Who doesn’t?”(Me)…etc…and they invited me to The Assembly of God to watch the Friday night movie. I told them I am a hermit and never go out.

  2. Now that’s delightful! I continue to be in awe of you control of form… I “get rid of them” rather quickly by saying, “Have you ever considered becoming a Catholic?”

    • I hadn’t thought of that…..that is GOOD….especially if you can begin to expostulate on something— almost anything—of Aquinas, and throw in the Latin. They will think you’re mad, and run away!

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