A shriveled, little, old woman sits slumped

in a wheelchair. Her lazy eyes stare downward

until something intrudes on her tunnel vision.

Eyes squint and zero in like laser beams on the prey.

The quarry stands close.  She lifts her protruding chin;

she smacks her lips like she is licking her chops.

Betty Davis speaks, “Nice of you to think about

showing up.  How long has it been since your were

last here (son or daughter or sister or brother or

cousin or just about anyone willing to show up

for the abuse)?”