There was this friend I had who swore.(Poem)

 
   There was this friend I had who swore 
   by her Saint, nameless here for 
   reasons of security; not one of the ones 
   you'd run across in just any apse, she had a 
 
   recondite home, out of town, to the left of the more 
   illustrious: the Teresas & Franciscas, she had her obscure 
   niche, a votive or two, was depicted in Augusty blue 
   & cream; a sort of nightgown; a poor relation 
 
   to the centrifugal Virgin, with the rubied crown, 
   the diadem, the scepter in her waxy hand: the nearest 
   to Jesus, if you were petitioning 
   & yet the cognoscenti came, some on their knees, 
 
   surreptitious, skirting the Star, & imploring, & …