“Shalom aleichem!”
“What am I supposed to do with that?” she asked.
The poor Brooklyn JAP.
She didn’t know.
So I should keep it a sod,
a geheimnis?
Of course I told her!

She smiled,
Gave me her apple,
Then started kvetching
About all her Yentas texting
her. They shouldn’t?
Of course they should!

When she kvetches about
the 3 options fisher,
the 40 overweight goy
who disowns not only her but
all her Facebook friends,
and how she can’t find a standup guy.
What, they should be silent?

“Change your standards!”
“Trust the universe!”
“You should be so picky!”
Her Crossing Delancey Yentas opine.
She cups her hand,
air strokes twice,
looks at the ceiling and sighs:
“What, You can’t help me out?”

I laugh, recognizing the stroke sign
from high school Mensch friends.
I work on her apple and watermelon,
Nod understandingly. Tell her:
“Write to Yenta: ‘God Himself rang the doorbell.
I even answered it.
Saw a nothing.’
See what Yenta says.”

She wonders if I should bold
the copy. It works.
The namesake of the first king
of Israel doesn’t pick up stones.
I return the apple;
sling a few gentle
words about tea,
and leave.

She runs down the hall.
Like Fiddler on the Roof.
But this time the JAP
Reaches out to GoyBoy;
lent me a book
by Shalom (Peace) Auslander (foreigner):
“Beware of God.”

Like that should mean something?