My mother calls to tell me Grandpa 

is in a lather. Someone—a scammer—

has called his phone and in a frantic voice 

said his grandson is in desperate need 

of sixteen thousand dollars—a lather, 

my mother says, and would I please call him,

he’s beside himself with worry. And as I 

dial the digits, all I can think of 

is poor Grandpa in all manner of lather: 

hunched in the shower, a thick fleece 

of soapsuds swaddling his wizened body

like a woolly sheep, or in the barber chair, 

hot foam clinging to his face and neck 

while the barber readies his straight blade, 

or frothing at the mouth, God forbid,

after being bitten by the neighborhood raccoon 

he dutifully sets out kibble for nightly. 

My mother always did have a penchant 

for quirky old expressions. But when 

Grandpa picks up the phone and extends 

a calm greeting in his familiar baritone, 

I’m relieved to hear whatever lather 

had enveloped him earlier 

has since been rinsed down the drain.