Omaha

She measures a distance beaten, by public telephones, across fields of blue wheat, she won't bathe in wine or yeast, isolated but not alone, living by a rolling creek, a granny with rolled up sleeves, like the catechism she holds, and rifle next to the sheets, what better cure is a cry of ease, than to surrender perfume soaked, with a lover from the East, her drink is whisky free, ravaged lipstick Eau De Cologne, she whispers her feelings, secrets like lemons are seeping, from her white garden wall, she thinks to defeat them, carrying this load.