Fiona Three

From her white garden seat, she carries a load, secrets spread like poppy seed, stuff you keep, ravaged by lipstick or Cologne, she whispers her feelings, others call trick or treat, she surrenders perfume soaked, to drink her whisky neat, living by a swollen creek, the bible has a hold, this grandma rolls her sleeves, a rifle next to the sheets, she's no rolling stone, no better cure than ease, won't bathe in love's defeat, isolate but still at home, little time for feasts, she measures the string beans, there are no public telephones, down fields of blue wheat, she's not alone.