Gianna

In a supermarket park, her lovely face washed, by rain and river salt, she dresses to be decent, her trolley for a brush, looks at their blankets, lost without a spark, they lie here to rest, she's more than a clerk, it makes her real upset, when put to the test, gazing over their tents, life around here's stark, in ways she knows best, rage never hits the mark, thinks of what presence, needs to make any sense, about a City's expenses, locked out in some chart, they say it's a sequence, please have a heart, she gathers her baskets.