She's A Good Girl, Just A Ragdoll

Peer out, at Jenny's route
to the grocery store,
and there you will see
Junior's Automotive, a
neon-lit cactii of your
memory,
just over the train tracks
where the smoke from the
Plant billows up at nightwalk,
on your way home.

She is shy.
Love was not easy and didn't
come like a Jesuit to her
door.

Jenny played cardgames with
The Man, shooting craps
with cowboys and indians
until finally her broken-heart
blew out a tire.

Was I the gifted one whose magic
penetrated the moonlight enough
to lift me up like a cosmonaut,
allowing me to feast without want,
cautiously finding my
way back to a pretty couch?

Life sails pictures of our love scenes.
Just pick up on the ones without
the glare, and we all look beautiful.

Neither was there enough food or
clothing for Jenny.
Many forgotten myths follow a pack
of lies where she walked crooked
steps to coincidences for luck.

You cannot hurt her anymore.

Under the influence of frick-and-frack jokes
inside the steamy windows of a new car,
Jenny's feet don't touch the ground,
a flight from peril,
she hasn't wondered yet if the ants
will come, in the late spring.

When will she find the time to visit the
church with the Apostle Mary Statue looming
on the hill?