Hail Mary

It's quarter to 9 on the Hill
It already feels like 100 degrees
Atwells is at its finest:
Quiet, only a few cars coming
The birds are chirping happily
busy with their early chores
I have to wait a few minutes
Trying to let go of my thoughts
Letting out a few sighs
I'm holding my breath
There's a pungent stench
From the regurgitated fun of
of the night before
I need to clear my sleepy eyes 
And my nostrils
Adjusting my uniform and gear
Steadying my core
Before my shift starts
I check my surroundings
The perimeter
The cameras are on
Watching my every move
The GPS tracks the rest
Mary is on her way 
She is pedaling herself 
On her rusted iron steed
From the assisted home 
Across the street
She never misses the opening
Of her favorite store
Religiously, like if she was
Attending a Sunday service
The Turks are always 15 minutes
Late but open everyday and nights
There's always time and money
For booze, I learned that in school
Mary starts yelling her story
calling me by my name 
to get my undivided attention
I hear her, I have seen and heard 
many others like her before 
slowly fading to never be seen again
Sent to me, maybe just as 
a personalized warning 
I hear the same clichés, the same wisdom
The same excuses we all make
When we decide to drown further 
into our own misery
I'm not religious, not even spiritual
As most these days prefer to say
But I grew up seeing a million
Beautiful images of saints, sinners
Gods, Devils and Mary 
never looked this scary