Quiana

She notes the distance, around public telephones, measures the instant, she won't dine or sing, waiting for a call, strapped by this age thing, her granny comforts, like the Book she holds, bind her to the present, what's better than anything, than a field blue smoked, around her barns and kin, her drink's a mint julep, clean linen sweet Cologne, give what heaven's sent, face a shining pink, solitary but not alone, arising out of nothing, this is her home.