Reliquary

Passion spat, virgin brat ; prancing in a hat, an unwelcome incursion
on a bus excursion, file past, dances up stairs through a narrow entrance
to The Shop.

Ever sown eyes going to her gently, turns, stops to see if I’m staring.

Gorking at what she is wearing, I gloat, float to see if I can assist,
who is she daring ?
why not doff my façade ; dispense with caring, depart back to my art.

A sultry miss purrs ; admires an Abyssinian cat ?
Surreal, bent over scantily clad, feels naughty ; over the top attire 
what is the word I require ; reliquary.

Dolls eyes reflect what I previously was to inspect ; blushes a fairy.
Too late to be wary ; should beware, trapped canary.

Distances herself ; further back, bites into a sullen light,
lost into the bowel of the den. The Shop closes at ten,
plum forgot Ms Irate ; couldn’t wait.

Locked up and left, one tries to avoid theft.         

Morning after,
commenced quiet late, feeling it tampered with another's fate.
Occurred to me a wry smile traces on the hideous faces, of the Trolls,
vile plaster cast figurines, possessed vehicles ; for a Genies mischief.

Mid-morning, a scream, wails from the inner bowel of The Shop.

Dusting duties must stop. Go to where a crowd now huddles,

drips of blood, give way to puzzles, not dead, yet has bled, deflowered instead.

We carried ; comforted, caring lady covered her with a shawl.
Opened her eyes, before her stared the Trolls leaning against the wall.
She pointed at them all ; before she fell into slumber.
Rummaged through her bag, we later called a friends number. 
     
Dusting duties again begun, for the reliquary ; almost another day done,
delightfully spent in Sundays Sun.