Her Children sleep, Guarded by <br />a fourteen year old disciple <br />whilst she works the dead hours <br />dispensing, pale smiles, pepsi and <br />tobacco, to the weak beards and <br />young breasts of a student population <br />Saving lives and slaking thirsts <br />Blessed virgin of the late night store <br /> <br />There in her neon glass grotto <br />the conduit between the last joint <br />and something sticky, sweet, quick. <br />Worshipped, protected, 'til semi dawn <br />dreaming of her lost childhood <br />and picking away childhood's shells <br />from those who worship at <br />the blessed vigin's late night store <br /> <br />Until at last their drunken youth <br />becomes an empty echo in the aisles <br />her dreams grow cold within the dawn <br />her limbs grow numb from worship <br />and the call of her children's love <br />drive the blessed virgin home to <br />her earthly life, and a few hours fitful sleep<br /><br />Bill Mitton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-blessed-virgin-of-the-late-night-store/
