Blue Skies
by Kendra Cardin
This job really sours my soul sometimes. Makes my hands ache from filling notebook after notebook with newsworthy horrors. The glare of the bar's jukebox leans heavy on my corner booth this evening. Johnny Cash crooning. My usual cola with cherries shimmering.
I can always rely on Mavis to have a fresh pour waiting for me. Just how I like it, ice-cold and flat. I found her place last fall, after enduring another one of the sheriff's long press conferences. Been here ever since. Seated at the same booth, six o'clock, Monday through Friday. Twisting cherry stems into knots with my tongue, untangling the latest headline amid the clank and clatter of billiard balls and beer bottles.
Today's report: a twenty-five-year-old female found dead in her living room, tied to a chair, shot once in the side, once in the chest; her boyfriend, the culprit.
Not that it'll do Lady Justice any good. When the cops arrived at his house, the man went and died, right there. Fell to his knees on the damn porch, clutching at his heart. Couldn't cope with the burden of what he'd done, I suppose.
That's the story I'm hunched over now, pencil stub in hand. Eating my weight in maraschino cherries. Trying to do right by Delia.
Delia, Delia, Delia — the one every journalist and broadcaster should be spotlighting. Not that good-for-nothing whose ticker gave out during his arrest, dropping the jaws of the gathered crowd of neighborhood looky-loos and law enforcement. But the friendly waitress at Wilma's BBQ who played the mandolin and was a jammer on the local roller derby team. Delia, Delia, Delia. I commit her name to the page like an incantation, hoping my editor will see it my way, take the article as I've written it. Delia, Delia, Delia. With barely a mention of the bastard who snuffed out her radiance.
Mavis whistles over at me from behind the bar, raises a fresh jar of plump red cherries. I wave my hand, shake my head no. All that sweetness puckering in my gut this evening. Delia, Delia, Delia. Honor student in high school, devoted volunteer at the community center, calling bingo on Sundays, helping campers make lavender scented soaps and tie-dyed t-shirts in July. Delia, Delia, Delia. Green eyes like springtime.
I knot the last cherry stem perfectly between my teeth and spit it out onto the napkin with the others. Shuffle my notes together with sticky, syrup-pink fingers. Slide out of the booth. Mavis sends a wink my way, and I wink back. Our see you tomorrow.
A couple of quarters clink together when I go to pocket my pencil nub. I dig them out, dust off the lint. A shine of silver greening beneath the glow of a neon bar sign.
Delia, Delia Delia.
My jukebox companion accepts my offering — two coins for the ferryman. She clunks and wheezes when I make my selection. Old girl's seen better days, but she can still get the job done.
I've one foot out of the bar when Willie Nelson's familiar serenade begins to play, so I carry it on myself, down the street, under the stardusted sky. Singing soft and easy as I grip my car keys like claws between my knuckles.
This one goes out to Delia, wherever she may be.
Kendra Cardin creates a safe harbor for herself with poetry and storytelling. Her writings have found homes in a variety of publications including those of Rough Diamond Poetry, Five Minutes, Blink-Ink, Little Thoughts Press, Temple in a City, and Neither Fish Nor Foul.
by Kendra Cardin
This job really sours my soul sometimes. Makes my hands ache from filling notebook after notebook with newsworthy horrors. The glare of the bar's jukebox leans heavy on my corner booth this evening. Johnny Cash crooning. My usual cola with cherries shimmering.
I can always rely on Mavis to have a fresh pour waiting for me. Just how I like it, ice-cold and flat. I found her place last fall, after enduring another one of the sheriff's long press conferences. Been here ever since. Seated at the same booth, six o'clock, Monday through Friday. Twisting cherry stems into knots with my tongue, untangling the latest headline amid the clank and clatter of billiard balls and beer bottles.
Today's report: a twenty-five-year-old female found dead in her living room, tied to a chair, shot once in the side, once in the chest; her boyfriend, the culprit.
Not that it'll do Lady Justice any good. When the cops arrived at his house, the man went and died, right there. Fell to his knees on the damn porch, clutching at his heart. Couldn't cope with the burden of what he'd done, I suppose.
That's the story I'm hunched over now, pencil stub in hand. Eating my weight in maraschino cherries. Trying to do right by Delia.
Delia, Delia, Delia — the one every journalist and broadcaster should be spotlighting. Not that good-for-nothing whose ticker gave out during his arrest, dropping the jaws of the gathered crowd of neighborhood looky-loos and law enforcement. But the friendly waitress at Wilma's BBQ who played the mandolin and was a jammer on the local roller derby team. Delia, Delia, Delia. I commit her name to the page like an incantation, hoping my editor will see it my way, take the article as I've written it. Delia, Delia, Delia. With barely a mention of the bastard who snuffed out her radiance.
Mavis whistles over at me from behind the bar, raises a fresh jar of plump red cherries. I wave my hand, shake my head no. All that sweetness puckering in my gut this evening. Delia, Delia, Delia. Honor student in high school, devoted volunteer at the community center, calling bingo on Sundays, helping campers make lavender scented soaps and tie-dyed t-shirts in July. Delia, Delia, Delia. Green eyes like springtime.
I knot the last cherry stem perfectly between my teeth and spit it out onto the napkin with the others. Shuffle my notes together with sticky, syrup-pink fingers. Slide out of the booth. Mavis sends a wink my way, and I wink back. Our see you tomorrow.
A couple of quarters clink together when I go to pocket my pencil nub. I dig them out, dust off the lint. A shine of silver greening beneath the glow of a neon bar sign.
Delia, Delia Delia.
My jukebox companion accepts my offering — two coins for the ferryman. She clunks and wheezes when I make my selection. Old girl's seen better days, but she can still get the job done.
I've one foot out of the bar when Willie Nelson's familiar serenade begins to play, so I carry it on myself, down the street, under the stardusted sky. Singing soft and easy as I grip my car keys like claws between my knuckles.
This one goes out to Delia, wherever she may be.
Kendra Cardin creates a safe harbor for herself with poetry and storytelling. Her writings have found homes in a variety of publications including those of Rough Diamond Poetry, Five Minutes, Blink-Ink, Little Thoughts Press, Temple in a City, and Neither Fish Nor Foul.