Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Three

Kerry Trautman

Candi's Pontiac

Sometimes after work Candi's feet hurt, and she swears next week she'll finally buy new work shoes. Sometimes after work Candi drives for the sake of motion, tingling in her limbs from the thrill of leaving and leaving fast with road wind. Candi drives with the radio off, singing Patsy Cline strong and loud, and she imagines the whistle-rush of air over the windowframe is cheering her, telling her to drive, drive faster further, let high-rises slide past, sidewalks slide past, suburbs slide past all blurred outside the Pontiac window. When there's a crash on the highway Candi shudders but stares at the pink shocks of road flares knowing something crunched and maybe bloody might follow. Candi drives and wonders why it's always shoes, and never bills or children left along the shoulder.