What Would This Old Hag Know
He is around you now, the wizened woman said.
She had blue and purple hair, and she looked a hundred.
The lines in her face were crisscrossing like a pie that fell.
What would she know, this woman who professed to know.
Who is it? I asked, fearful that it might be my angry uncle.
It is a young boy, she said, about nine. He has caramel skin.
A bad guess if she was guessing as I am pasty white like glue.
And dark eyes, she told me; I think his name is Little Wolf.
My ears perked up like my German Shepherd’s ears
When he hears the truck of an Amazon delivery truck.
Little Wolf was the name of my imaginary friend
When I was three or four.
He had seemed real to me then.
Now at sixty-nine, I had almost forgotten him.
He is your guardian angel, she told me.
He helps you do the right thing.
She had credence now.
I saw wisdom in her eyes.
Her highway lined face changed to kind.
I was convinced.
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