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 just another day,
 delightfully spent in Sundays Sun.