A fanatic at the door
selling environmental salvation
begs for money at dinnertime.

Not now, I say.  Come back later.
But my wife appears,
morphs into a polite 80 year old widow
and nodding, let’s the fanatic talk
though spaghetti is on the table.
So, I eat alone

in full view
watching the 25 bucks
exchange hands,
the fanatic’s smirking face
peering over my wife’s shoulder
as I twirl my spaghetti in anger.