by Karen Head
What if I chucked it all,
began calling myself Candi,
(with a heart over the “i”)
stopped in at Wal-Mart to buy
a jean-skirt, a tank top,
and a can of Aqua Net,
hitchhiked to a small town
just outside Birmingham, AL
taking on a part-time waitress gig,
mornings at the Waffle House,
evenings spent pot-smoking
and fucking anyone who could pay
enough, just to make ends meet,
dealt a little meth near train crossings
from a junker with a hood that would pop up
whenever I gunned the engine or drove over 45,
until the day came when I saw
a Laura Ashley knockoff jumper
hanging out of the Salvation Army bin
and felt the Spirit move me,
took to preaching from the self-serve pumps
at the Shell station that sells trucker porn,
answering to any Biblical name,
believing, like proper church matrons,
that I was somehow more redeemable,
worth a dollar’s charity, when before
they couldn’t be bothered to leave
me a tip when I served them coffee.
