The Patron Saint of Damaged Women

She prays to the

Patron Saint

Of Damaged Women

A mile over

A highway

Gives her

Something

To fall asleep to

From her attic bedroom
She can look at people

Going somewhere

Or maybe just

Driving around

Downstairs

Frying pans

Hang onto

The grilled cheese

She had for dinner

The couch has a friend on it

One who drank too much

At the bar

And couldn’t do

The eight-minute drive home

The bedroom downstairs

Doesn’t have a bed in it

Or anything else

For that matter

The roommate took off

Two weeks ago

Without paying that month’s rent

And without any explanation

Aside from a note

That said ‘Fuck you’

And three missing DVD's

From the shelf in the living room

She sits up in her room

With a cup of coffee

And no way to get to 6am

Without caffeine

And prayer

So she prays

The Patron Saint of Damaged Women

Doesn’t have a name

But her imagination allows her to christen that saint

With her own name--

Cara

The room is casually claustrophobic

And that’s why she chose it
The morning she moved in the house

With the roommate

Who would one day

Abandon her

And take the Director’s Cut

Of Moulin Rouge

On the way out

She likes small spaces

And she likes forgetting what day it is--

An attic bedroom

Is good for that

Especially when it only lets in

A little bit of natural light

And has one of those porthole windows

That makes you feel like you’re on a ship

Instead of in a house

On the East Side

Acting like a student

But without the education

She pulls a blanket up around her

And curls up into a ball

While she thinks about Saint Cara

And what her story might be

Maybe she was a woman

Who loved a man

Only to have him

Hit the highway one night

While she was still lying in bed

Drunk and thrilled

Because she thought his arms

Were still around her

Maybe she was a woman

Who trusted a man

Only to find out

That one night he’d crept downstairs

And slept with her roommate

And it took six whole months

For the guilt to eat away

At her downstairs conscience

Maybe she was a woman

Staying up all night

Knowing that somewhere

A red car was headed towards upstate Maine

Where that man was

And where that roommate

Soon would be

And maybe the world was moving

Towards happiness

And leaving her out of it

A Prayer for Saint Cara

Patron Saint of Damaged Women

Who can stay up with you all night

While your friends sleeps it off

Down on your couch

A Prayer for Those

Who See No Beauty

In a Dream

A Prayer for Portholes

On Attic Ships

And Days Off

In the Middle of the Week

Grilled Cheese for Dinner

And Hangovers for Breakfast

These would be

The things

She prayed for
If she prayed

Because why ask for answers

When you don’t even know the questions?

Why pray to a saint

Who’s never fucked up?

What kind of saint

Would that be anyway?

She’d rather pray

To just stay where she is

And not get called

To that ever-rolling highway

To people who can’t sit still

And sleep wherever they fall

Who leave in the middle of the night

Because love traps them

And it doesn’t do much else

She’d rather just drink coffee

And watch the sun come up

That’s fine by her

That’s all she’d want

To keep it all like this--

Not great

But not half-bad either

If you really think about it

Keep it like this

That

Would be

Her prayer