in stories told to strangers are vigils of the heart
Halting speech through nasal delivery, the taxi driver could’a been a boxer. Would have been too but for her toes. Three little piggies in a row, not touching the floor.
There went early ballet lessons. There went a career fighting fire. There went running fast enough before they tossed her daughter into a van. White. Lightning logo. You seen it—no?
She asks everyone, every airport run. Has her say and kicks the dash to make those hobbling piggies pay. So many fares ago, still hoping the passenger who knows is listening.
