It's All Greek to Them

My mother--
not content
with "grandcats"--
tries to set me up.

A nice man, she says.
Goes to church.
Works at a bank.
Drives a nice car.

"Does he write?"
I ask.
"Paint?"
"Travel?"

"I don't know,
you'll like him,"
she insists.
Hopes.

"I have enough,"
I tell her.
"My work, writing,
the house, friends."

"Think about it,"
she says.
"I have,"
I respond.

She asks again,
a week later.
Three weeks later.
"No, Mom."

"He doesn't understand,"
she tells me.
"You don't understand,"
I reply.

"You meet, no?"
says her boyfriend,
the older Greek
from upstairs.

"You talk.
You like.
You get married.
No?"

"No,"
I think to scream--
but am polite
to my elders.

"Honey," he says,
"You are alone.
You get married,
you are happy."

"I am happy,"
I insist,
no doubt in
Swahili.