The right Language

The Right Language.

Reading a poem about Jehovah’s witnesses
I remembered meeting two of them once,
they rang on mother’s front door, I opened
and they began asking me questions about
religion, I was young and too polite to slam
the door shut, I would do now as I’m old
and rude, I stood there hoping they would
go away. Mother, who worked at a canning
factory with hundred other women came to
my rescue; there were gasps, the witnesses
shrunk and vanished, never saw them again.