Dana

She says a dawn novena, and worries about her feet, concerned who will see her, love's a trick to trap, not knowing what to keep, equipped for other crap, every tune’s a new scene, bars fuel her sole conceit, blonde singers, wooden dreams, rise to greet and grasp, but when morning turns green, she prays alone unfathered, wondering if there’s a beat, more than any depth of need, to always bet on evens , perhaps with a common tap, poised or in retreat, something good will last, dancing rescues everything.