// Jean Free
The highway splits apart, fluorescent yellow
lines obscured by traffic cones. A white
starched a-lined nun is standing still; the billow
of her veil deflates. Two hazard lights
are blinking, blinking: her vehicle is dead.
Her feet rest on the concrete’s edge, laced tight,
soles thick and balanced. Passersby, instead
of stopping, speed right past and barely glimpse
a ghost. Three vultures circle overhead.
A black sedan crawls, stops; she slips inside
its bleak interior. They veer off-road
past barricades. The sweet potato pie
she’d baked, abandoned in her car is cold.