This is the first time
I have seen that look in wrinkled eyes.
At ten years old
When I was caught up,
After being put to bed
I looked up at my mom
With those same eyes.
Now they are set in frames
Of experience.
She clutches her
Purse in her lap
With bare boney fingers.
She tells me
He is an investor,
A vanilla man,
A man in a little screen,
A man on the other end
Of the line.
I ask if she gave him money.
She pulls her purse closer,
Mustering a defiance found only in old age.
I am told that it is not my business.
I ask if her children know.
They live in Santa Clara and Austin.
Empty and eggless.
She teeters on the edge of
Isolation and the end.
Did ancient money lenders
Have this same conversation?
Did the Italian deposit houses
Of the Medici help little old ladies?
Would Jesus kick me out of
The temple for this?
I know from experience that
She has two options -
Give in or get out.
I can not help but think
That I may be the longest
Conversation she has had this week.
You call it a scam,
I call it prostitution.
What would you pay for a friend?