She perches
  a bird on a
spindly winter branch
her pious breast
  puffed up with
    self
     and
   righteousness
she builds her nest of
  pillows and
    lap blankets -
     afghans of granny
squares like a motley
  jumble of feathers
the shredded remains of
  a circus clown
rising from her army green
        Crocs (R) to her
poly-chiffon hanky
   a mantilla of lies to
      her
     self
  and she nestles down on
her egg of wine and host and
   judgment
weaving into the walls of her
   nest her prayers for the
     unfortunate for the
     unbelieving for the
     undisciplined for the
         flaw of being
less holy and less wholly
   the child of
Big G God
   she knows she is