Janine

She makes a dawn novena, and worries about her hips, if God will see her, each night is a feast, every tune loosens her lips, moves like a chocolate treat, in any wooden season, the bars are full of drips, passed the age of reason, men won’t let her sleep, she gives them all the slip, says she’s resting this evening, barefoot makes a secret plea, let her have some kids, better than not believing, if she had a crayon, to draw a time this is, she’d make a haven lantern, to light a path to bliss.