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)?”